Before You Know Kindness
by IWantYouInMyLife
Summary: Before you know what kindness really is, you must lose things.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: I wrote this story for Camp Nano this year. I had an idea in my head — something different and scary that I needed to put down on paper before it got lost inside my head. And I did. My initial goal was to write 27k words and to release this as a one-shot, only plot happened and when I saw, the story had transformed into a multi-chaptered monster right under my nose.**

**Anyway, the point is: it's done. I wrote this entire thing in a month and I still can't believe that I did it. I won't lie — it won't be for everyone. This is a story for people who have seen pain and are searching for a little something to soothe it.**

**I don't have a beta, so any mistakes are my own.**

**(Trigger Warnings: Obsessive behavior, unhealthy relationships, nightmares, compulsive behavior, dependency, violence and grief.) Take care of yourselves!**

* * *

Before you know what kindness really is

you must lose things,

feel the future dissolve in a moment

like salt in a weakened broth.

— _Kindness _

_by Naomi Shihab Nye_

* * *

Harry's lost.

He just cannot let it go — everything seems to remind him of Snape. The war is over; there are no more enemies to fight, battles to win, plans to construct, places to hide, or anything really that requires his input. The Wizarding World is ready to move on without Harry.

He has done his job as the Chosen One, as The-Boy-Who-Lived, and now, they are ready to walk with their own two feet.

The truth is: Harry did everything he could. He cleared Snape's name, insisted the Ministry gave him a first-class Order of Merlin, sold his soul-wrecking life story to every newspaper he could get his hands on until everybody in the Wizarding World knew exactly who he was and why they should be eternally grateful to him.

But people are moving on, carrying on with their lives, eager to rid themselves of the dark memories of the past. They had all lived at war for far too long, and now the energy they have is directed towards rebuilding what was lost and getting back to their old routines.

Everyone wants to forget.

Only Harry isn't ready for it. Quite on the contrary, actually. With each passing day, he grows more restless, angry, dissatisfied. How can he move on when so many people would never have the opportunity to do so, as well? What about Remus and Tonks, who would never see their child grow up? What about Sirius, who spent so many of his years unjustly arrested? What about his mom and dad, who died for nothing? What about Albus, who tried his best to shape the new generation, and to make sure that their world changed into a far more gentle and accepting one, and yet would never live to see his vision come true? What about Fred, whose only crime had been to try to bring joy to people's lives? What about Moody, who died to protect him?

But most of all — more pressingly and incomprehensible — what about Severus Snape?

What about the man who had an awful childhood, who suffered in the hand of his own father? What about him, who came to Hogwarts, trying to find a place to escape his cruel reality, only to be faced with an even harsher world that judged him for his blood, for his looks, for his intelligence? What of him, who only loved one person, who gave everything away for Lily Evans, only to also have that ripped away from him? It doesn't make sense.

Thinking about any part of Snape's life tears Harry open; everything about it is unacceptable.

_God_, it's beyond unfair that he felt so misplaced and unappreciated among his family and peers that he believed Voldemort was his only option — the only person who could truly understand his potential. And for what? To become a murderer, a torturer? To have his knowledge and talent, used and abused to harm others? To hear a prophecy and for it to condemn the only woman he had ever loved?

To survive in silence for over a decade. To teach children who hated him. To have no one.

Harry's thoughts spiral down, over and over again, every day, as he tries to connect the dots, to fit the puzzle pieces together, to force the painting to make sense. Only it doesn't. It never will, because too many shitty things happened in the past that he can't ignore, can't get past them.

It's impossible not to acknowledge the fact that they were both connected. Are connected, still. The vow Snape took — the fucking Unbreakable Vow — connected their lives in a way that should have been obvious to Harry even as a child. Clear as the day — unmistakable.

How many times had Snape risked his life to save Harry's? Just done it, without waiting for any sort recognition or praise, too.

Harry often thinks about their interactions, about the way he treated the man throughout the years, arrogant to the very end. And yeah, it stings that, in a way, Snape had been right. Even though he was not a bully like James had been, Harry had behaved like the most spoiled, blind, arrogant child, when it came to Snape.

He had expected help, security, information, had wanted the man to be his mentor, his teacher, his spy, and yet, despite having all that in his hands, he still stomped and cursed at the very air Snape breathed. At the time, it all seemed to make sense. Having someone to blame, to point the finger at and direct all of his overwhelming anger — he wanted that.

And still, he can't help but think of them as connected. Both of them toed the line all of their lives, living under the pressure of having expectations from both sides and having to manage both Dumbledore and Voldemort — knowing one risky move, one moment of distraction could end their lives.

And yet, even in that scenario, Harry knows he had an easier time than Snape.

He had friends, and money, and moments of happiness where he felt that the looming darkness threatening to swallow their world whole couldn't touch him. Meanwhile, what did Snape get? Who would have mourned him, when he died?

In fact, who is mourning him right now?

Who, but Harry, stands in his grave and buys him flowers? Who sits on the stone and shares moments of peaceful silence with him? Who remembers him fondly? Who knows about the truth of his life?

Harry has all these memories, memories that he watched in the pensive once, before dying, as a young, foolish kid, and they are stuck with him. Each one, crowding his mind, invading his dreams, shaping his nightmares, _controlling his life_.

It's an obsession, Harry knows it; can feel it in his bones — the desperate need to reshape history, to undo the past, and change his life for the better. Nobody deserved it more.

Only…

Everybody is moving on. Hermione and Ron are happily married, Ginny is playing for the Harpies as a seeker... even Malfoy found someone to put up with him.

The war is over.

They won.

It's been ten years.

There is nothing else left to do.

Only somehow, somewhere along the way, Harry lost all his will to be a part of this new life.

He's a warrior. A boy who was shaped to become a weapon. A leader of a revolution. An ideal. A figure to look up to. He's all that and more.

Harry had once been everything that the Light had needed him to be; only now, they had no use for him any longer. His job was done and over with. Harry is a figure in history books, for God's sake. A legend. A person who has the sort of story people tell their kids at night in a quiet voice, changing it so much, glamorizing it so badly, that it was barely discernible.

It's ironic, but Harry has already become a historical figure; something that belongs in a museum where people may gaze upon him, shamelessly and undisturbed, lazily studying his features and drawing their own conclusion of what he represents to the present.

In a way, it's obvious — the world no longer needs Harry Potter. No, he's needed elsewhere, in a whole other time and place, where his memories and knowledge still make sense, still have some value to them.

Harry's place is in the past.

_Maybe it's time to make true of his words_, Harry thinks, _maybe it's time to reshape the past. _

* * *

Clearly, his friends don't agree.

"Harry, you have to understand how this all sounds," Hermione says as soon as Harry is done speaking, a grimace pulling at her mouth. "Professor Snape knew the risks of his job. Don't diminish his choices like that."

They just don't see it. No one does. All that's obvious and clear to Harry, remains incomprehensible to everybody else, no matter how much explaining he does, and maybe that's the hardest part to accept. That he's alone in his journey, that he won't have their understanding or support.

"Job? Hermione, it wasn't a job! He had the mark; Tom owned him," Harry argues, frustrated beyond belief. "By the time he realized the bed he had made for himself, it was far too late. He didn't deserve this."

Snape didn't deserve any of what had happened to him throughout his life, for Christ's sake. And in truth, there's no way Harry can explain that to Hermione and Ron without sharing the memories he has swimming in his mind — continuously and without fail — and he doesn't want that.

Harry doesn't want to share any of it. Not the memories from their Legilimency lessons, not the ones he stole like a petty criminal from the pensive, and definitely not the deeply, unbearably personal ones Snape had given him at the very end.

No. These memories are Harry's, and he's not keen on sharing them with anybody else. They wouldn't understand them — what they mean, how priceless they are — so it makes sense to keep them close, safe and sound inside Harry's mind, where they are treasured the way they should be.

Ron's nose wrinkle in distaste. It's quick, barely noticeable unless one is paying very close attention to his reactions, and he's fast to settle his face once more into a neutral mask, but Harry's seen it.

"Mate, I get it," Ron starts, although he does not, in fact, get anything at all. "What he did was incredible, and we're all grateful — we are. But it doesn't change the fact that he was a git. He was horrible to us — to everyone, really. I can't believe you're acting as though he's suddenly some sort of shiny prince riding to save us all."

And Harry's blood boil. "How well would you handle the pressure of being a double spy, Ron? Hun? Would you smile happily every day, not knowing if that would be the day you would get killed? Actually, scratch that — tortured to an inch of your life, _then_ killed," he spats, knowing he's crossing a line, being too aggressive, yet not able to get a grip over himself at the same time.

It's like a trigger, cords being pulled, and Harry's now just going along for the ride. He grins, and it's all teeth and blood. "Snape had to live in Riddle's presence almost daily near the end. How would you do, then?" He asks, dares. "Seeing as you couldn't quite handle a Horcrux for a few weeks, that's it."

The words land like a rock falling in between them, separating his best friends from him in an almost palpable way, creating a wall of tension instantly. He's gone too far, spoke words that had only ever skirted the edges of his mind before in moments of genuine pain and grief, and now there's no taking them back. No unsaying it.

It's done, and Harry nearly flinches when he realizes that he means them. He's still cut deep from Ron's betrayal, and to have the man standing in his house, alive and well, acting as though Snape's sacrifice isn't the only thing that allows him to be where he is, well, that rubs Harry in all the wrong ways.

Hermione slaps a hand on the table, eyes storming with fury. "Harry!" And it's an expected reaction — the anger and the righteousness. She's always been quick to forgive whenever Ron was concerned.

Said man, however, isn't reacting at all. In fact, he looks frozen in place, as though Harry's words were made of pure ice, seeping inside his body and freezing every little cell of his. There's no angry, red face. No screams. No outward show of negative emotion whatsoever.

Ron blinks fast, and in the next second, he's up and out of his chair, leaving the room without another word or even a backward glance.

"That was low." Hermione shakes her head. "Harry that… I can't believe you would—"

But Harry is still burning with outrage and madness, tasting bitterness at the back of his throat, and Hermione's reproach serves only to turn his attention to her. Green and brown eyes meet. Harry's magic in tugging against the constant hold he has over it, trying to break free, to be unleashed, to roam free across the room and put another wall between them.

"Low? Oh, spare me, Hermione," Harry sneers. It's not an expression he usually uses, and he feels the skin settling weird on his face, as though unused to getting stretched in that manner. "I don't need this. I don't need you both to come here, judging what I'm doing — what I'm trying to do. I'm fine, alright? So either help me, or at least stop acting like I'm crazy for giving a fuck."

The more he says, the deeper the frown settles on Hermione's face.

"You are the one acting crazy as we try to give a fuck about you, Harry," she says, losing the sharpness from before. "This — all this — it isn't you. I don't know why you think this is your only option, but it's not. You need to stop." She pauses, gives him a pointed look. "This isn't what Professor Snape would've wanted for you. He died so you could live, Harry. This? This isn't living."

With that, she stands up and comes closer, squeezing his shoulder for the briefest of moments before turning in the same direction as Ron had minutes ago and walking away. She, too, doesn't say another word.

Harry remains where he is, wondering for the first time if she's right, if he has lost his mind, if this obsession is eating his flesh from the inside and he's the only one not seeing it.

Is it?

Hermione is never wrong, but she doesn't sound right this time.

It's a conundrum, and Harry has no way of knowing if he's doing the right thing or fucking up, even more, the world around him.

* * *

The visions swim in front of him, so painfully clear and detailed, and Harry wants nothing more than to close his eyes and block the images from seeping into his brain, where they will undoubtedly stick and grow roots.

Yet, he cannot.

Harry_ knows_ how it will go.

The scenes will replay on a continuous loop in his mind until he can recall every little detail, every sentenced uttered, spoken, whispered, yelled, sneered, spat.

Harry cannot forget. It is his curse — to be the one who knows, who understands Severus Snape in such a visceral way that he has no choice but to feel strongly enough about him to make up for all the others who _should_ know.

Snape deserves every accolade and medal and award and article and public apology. He earned them all; yet, he will never see or hear a single one.

And that breaks him. Harry, that is.

Snape is dead; he's already broken.

Harry needs to do something about it. He needs to go.

* * *

"Ragnok, thank you for your time," Harry greets with a nod of the head, shaking the goblin's hand when it's offered. "I've come to close all my vaults. I'll need everything that's in them."

"Is there a problem?" Ragnok asks, his face giving nothing away. If he has any thoughts on Harry's decision, he's keeping them to himself rather well.

Harry shakes his head. "No, your service is impeccable as ever," he reassures, trying to come up with a subtle way of stating his business. "I'll be going...away. It would be impractical to leave my possessions behind — I'm sure you'll understand."

There's a glint in Ragnok's eyes now. A knowing glint. "Away, you say? Hun. I see."

"Yes," Harry agrees, pausing before his next words. "I would appreciate it if the news of my departure weren't made public."

"I can't imagine that your presence won't be missed."

"Of course. I hope, though, to be far enough away by then that it won't matter."

"Understandable." Ragnok nods. "There will be no words coming from the Goblin nation, rest assured. As for your… request, preparations will need to be made. We'll need a few days to gather everything. The Black's vaults, in particular, will need special handling." He taps a finger against the tabletop. "As you are well aware, after the trials, Bellatrix Lestrange's vault was incorporated back into Black's line — would you like to retrieve the items inside it, too? There are many dark artefacts and books hidden inside those walls."

Yes, Harry is, in fact, well aware of that. Acutely aware.

"Absolutely," he says, agreeing without a pause. "I want it all. I'm taking everything with me."

Mainly because he trusts no one to handle the shit Bellatrix accumulated throughout her life. And also, Snape might want to have a look at it, and Harry isn't about to deny him the chance. The man may have mocked Hermione for it, but even Harry recognized a bookworm when he saw one, and Snape definitely fitted the category.

"Very well. Return next week, and we'll have the papers ready."

"Great," Harry says, getting up. He knows a dismissal when he hears one. "Thank you for your time, Ragnok. It has been a pleasure doing business with you."

When Harry leaves the bank, he releases a breath he didn't know he had been holding. One less thing to do, one more step towards his destination.

* * *

Harry packs his things. His clothes, his photos, his every goddamn possession. He doesn't plan to come back, so he must take everything that has ever belonged to him, that proved his existence in this wreck of a house.

It feels symbolic that he's taking the time to do this, one item at a time, one by one, picking his stuff and rolling it around in his hands, feeling it. Touching his surroundings, his life. He's putting it away, packing it all to be taken elsewhere.

The pieces are falling into place, and Harry feels nothing but determination and a weird kind of nostalgia — for the past, for the future. It's hard to tell.

He'd already resigned from his job — collected his personal belongings and appointed someone better suited to take his place.

Shrunken inside Harry's pockets, there are enough money and artefacts to build a small city.

There's nothing else left to do. He's ready.

The last place to sort through is the library. The Black's library. The rows and rows of books that had never truly belonged to Harry, in the first place. He caresses the spine of one, grabs it, reads the cover.

It's a book on spell weaving.

Harry has never read it, yet it doesn't take Hermione Granger to know that a book from the Black's library about the art of creating spells can only be about one type of magic, and it's probably not the sort Albus would approve of.

_Hun_.

He should definitely destroy it. Set it on fire and never think about the damn book again in his life. That would probably be the smart thing to do. If fact, that's what he should do about the majority of the books in this place — the endless bookcases reaking of Dark magic.

That would be a wise decision.

Harry doesn't do that.

Of course he doesn't. Harry had run out of smart ideas about ten years ago, and had, instead, been left with only the crappy ones to juggle around. So he keeps the fucking book.

Harry keeps them all.

* * *

On the last day, Harry wants to say something, to warn his best friends that he won't be there tomorrow. He wants to hug them tight and say goodbye.

It's the very least they deserve after all they've done for him, without asking for a single thing in return, but the moment passes, slips right through Harry's fingers as he's too busy soaking their presence in, trying to commit each tiny detail to memory. The caramel colour of Hermione's curls, the freckles on Ron's face, their voices, the way Hermione waves her hands as she speaks or the constant way in which Ron pushes his long hair out of the way…

Harry's distracted. He speaks, and eats, and drinks, and does all that is expected of him, but his mind is somewhere else, trapped in an endless cycle of watching and creating files in his mind to keep every single particular gesture and quirk he's seeing.

And so, as things go, the moment passes. Just… passes.

Suddenly, they are leaving — getting up from their seats, pulling on their coats, and walking to the door — and Harry has said absolutely nothing. Not one single word about his plan, about going back in time, about risking his life to save another.

The moment's lost. Maybe it had never even been there, actually.

Somehow, though, it feels right. If Harry could choose — _and he can_ — that's how he wanted their last time seeing each other to go. He can do without the tears, and the screams, and the rage, and the hurtful words that would undoubtedly be thrown around in such a situation.

Maybe that's why he smiles as they leave — breezy and tranquil — hugging them one last time in the doorway, breathing in their scents, feeling sincere gratitude towards the only two people who stuck around despite Harry's dubious life choices.

It's just after they had left that Harry realizes that the radio is still on, playing a soft soundtrack to their farewell. It's wryly well suited, too.

'_Girl, I'm leaving you tomorrow.'_ Lionel Richie sings, echoing Harry's sentiment perfectly. '_That's why I'm easy. I'm easy like sunday morning.'_

* * *

Harry looks at his reflection in the mirror.

Perhaps he should be afraid to be recognized — and in other circumstances, he would be — but he knows that time has changed him so much that it hardly matters anymore. With a perpetual scruff, and his longer, even shaggier hair, his green eyes, and the complete lack of James' personal brand of arrogance and self-importance, there's not much resemblance between them, after all.

Harry fought for too long, ran from his troubles for even longer, and travelled far enough away from home that it didn't even exist any longer. It's just been too long. No one would see a Potter in him. Not even he recognized his own reflection, these days.

It's a reflection fit of a new name. A new life.

Harry's about to become somebody else, and that somebody will be a lot of things but a Potter won't be one of them. The papers — the very expensive, illegally acquired papers — burning inside his pocket are proof of his new identity. Once he gets there, Harry will have another name, another birth certificate, another past entirely.

He wonders how terrible of a person it makes him that he can't find it in himself to feel even a tinge of remorse for the change. On the contrary, it feels almost like a relief, like an absolution — to shed this ragged, old persona.

To transform.

To die and be reborn as another being. Another self.

Harry is joining the ashes of time, hoping to come out of the other side changed — remodelled by the clay of life.


	2. Chapter 2

What you held in your hand,

what you counted and carefully saved,

all this must go so you know

how desolate the landscape can be

between the regions of kindness.

How you ride and ride

thinking the bus will never stop,

the passengers eating maize and chicken

will stare out the window forever.

_— Kindness (part 2) _

_by Naomi Shihab Nye_

* * *

Harry lands in the past much smoother than he had any right to expect.

It's easy, almost. He turns the time-turner, the clock, the hours and years, and suddenly there he is, in 1976, breathing the very same air as the man he's trying to save.

A man who is sixteen-years-old, at the moment.

Six-_fucking_-teen.

Awesome.

* * *

Harry goes to Hogwarts first. It makes sense, really. All the people he wants to see are currently there, and patience was never Harry's strong suit. He travelled all the way back to see Snape — he's not waiting a minute longer.

Unfortunately, Albus is still the same fucking meddling old coot, and thus, not five minutes after stepping inside the wards of the castle, Harry is tracked down by a very persistent phoenix who seems happy to peck him in the head until he follows it back to the Headmaster's office.

As it's usually the case with Albus, the conversation goes off track in the blink of an eye, and Harry stupidly finds himself admitting to being new around and having no place to live or employment. After that, the offer was almost inevitable, really. Harry only has himself to blame.

He knew how Albus could never see a mystery, an odd case, and not get his hands in it. It's who he is — Harry is glad to notice that he _does_ know the old man, after all.

It doesn't change the fact that it's a horrible idea. An awful one, truly. He had been many things in his life, but a Hogwarts Professor had never been one of those — the whole time-travel bit only served to make matters even worse.

When Albus dares to suggest it, Harry snorts. He can't help it. "You don't want me to be a teacher here, old man. Trust me; no one wants that."

If anything, his blatant disinterest only serves to delight Albus. "Do you not enjoy children?" He asks, casually popping a lemon drop into his mouth.

"I don't dislike children," Harry admits with a tinge of reluctance. "They are not the problem, though. Seriously, if you're having trouble finding someone for the position, I'd be happy to help. I wasn't even aware this school _had_ a Dueling Club."

In fact, he's pretty much sure it had never been a thing in 1976.

"I believe you," Albus says, unfazed. "But to be honest, it would be no trouble for me to find a suitable teacher for the school, Harry; I merely trust you to do a better job than anyone else I could find."

Harry presses his lips together. "Well, you're wrong."

"Why are you so against the idea of staying here?"

"Oh, I have no qualms about staying here. On the contrary, I'm not going anywhere, at all. This is exactly where I wanna be," Harry hurries to correct him. "I'm simply not fit to be a Professor."

"Why?"

"I wouldn't be able to distance myself, to be impartial," Harry admits, hoping the harsh truth would help to sway the old man's opinion. "There are zero chances of professionalism where I'm concerned, and I can't be bothered to care about it enough to pretend otherwise."

Dumbledore studies him for a moment, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "You know some of the students here." And it's not a question.

"I do," he agrees evenly. "Many."

"You don't _care_ about many," Albus affirms, still weirdly unaffected by the whole exchange.

"No. No, I don't. I care about a few," Harry says, and his grip on the armchair tightens until his knuckles turn white. "One, in particular, would be… He's… I couldn't. I couldn't."

Teaching Snape would be impossible. Acting as though he hasn't travelled back in time to save him, to protect him; keeping his distance while trying to teach him stuff he probably had already mastered years ago; pretending to care about him only in a professional manner, taking house points, keeping him in line? No, that was a recipe for disaster if Harry had ever seen one.

It's much more likely that Harry will horribly embarrass himself in front of a full class by acting like a fool in front of his former professor. Better to all involved that he rejects the offer now.

Unfortunately, Dumbledore is undeterred by Harry's explicit admission that he'll blatantly favour some students in detriment to others. Which, _yeah_, a little weird for a headmaster. Not unheard of when it came to Dumbledore, though.

"All teachers have their favourites, Harry. I do think that you belong here." He pauses, and his smile grows. "Besides, the position will require you to interact with all the students in the castle. I believe you will enjoy this opportunity."

And that's the end of it. Harry knows it's an awful idea, and that he probably should say a polite, but firm no and get the hell out of that office, but it's Albus, who Harry has missed dearly, and it's a chance to stay closer to Snape.

So he says yes.

Who knows, maybe he would enjoy the opportunity.

* * *

It's breakfast time, and Harry is ravenous.

His greedy eyes instantly lock on his target, bypassing the other students with almost practised ease and landing on the Slytherin table, filled with young, and even younger students eating their breakfast, reading their books and overall focusing on their own, insignificant lives. However, near the end, sitting very close to the teacher's table is the person Harry is looking for.

Snape's head is buried in a large tome, his long, greasy hair falling like a curtain around him, only his crooked nose visible from Harry's place, but still, it is him. Severus Snape, sitting on the Slytherin table, ignoring the food surrounding him as well as his fellow housemates in order to focus all of his attention to an old book, fingers twitching ever so slightly as his eyes scan the pages.

Harry takes a breath, then another, holds the air in and tries to ignore the way his nails are trying to dig a hole into his trousers. He can hold it together. He can, and he will. Under no circumstances will Harry get up from his place and storm to where Snape is sitting to demand the young man's attention, to grip his chin and nudge his head up until their eyes could meet and—

No, Harry will not do any of it. He's an adult, a teacher, a fucking time-traveller, and he has better control over himself than that — or at least that's what he chooses to believe at the moment.

He can look, though. Looking is fine — as long as it's not overly apparent to the rest of the teachers that he's obsessing over a minor he's supposed to teach — so Harry looks, ignoring all pretenses and focusing all of his attention on the man who saved his life, who bargained away his freedom, his own chance at survival, to defeat Riddle, but seems _oh_ so young.

And then, as if hearing Harry's inner chants for a glimpse, some other student calls Snape and his head snaps up from the book he's reading, and Harry breath catches in his throat. Snape's hair falls back and his entire face is visible and Harry cannot do anything but gaze upon it, mesmerized.

There's no softness, no goodness or gentleness of which to commend him, only a hard mask of scorn as he meets the eye of the poor sod who dared to interrupt his morning reading. Even at a distance, the pools of onyx of Snape's eyes still manage to speak full monologues for him, transmitting and hiding at once, showing only a fraction of what Snape is truly thinking.

It's nearly too much; the way Snape's mouth open and suddenly he's speaking — much too low for Harry to discern among the sea of voices drowning the Great Hall. It makes Harry's hand twitch as if reaching for something — someone — and his magic trashes inside him, wanting to snap, to be free.

Oh, Harry wants. Wants to allow his magic free of its confinement to see what would happen, what it would search for in the ample space, if it would, much like it's master, ignore all others to touch the young Severus Snape who sits in his place, unaware of the in-depth scrutiny he's under. It's not hard to imagine that that's precisely what it would do, who it would reach for — Harry's magic has always been susceptible to his basic needs and emotions.

The allure is growing strong, and the possibilities begin to cloud Harry's mind. He could — _just for a second _— let his magic loose to watch the scene playing on his head unfold right before his eyes. There's no doubt in his mind that it would be impressive — the sight of it roaming free, flowing towards Snape, touching him, his own magic, and seeing the young man's response.

Yes, it will be much like a welcome, a greeting, a caress, and Harry wants it, _craves_ it—

"—Mr. Peverell," Minerva interrupts, drawing Harry back to the present. She means him — that's his name now. He shakes his head, trying to disperse the fog in his brain and clear up his ears at the same time, knowing he has probably missed a great deal of what she's said.

"I. Forgive me," Harry says, turning to face the smooth-faced Transfiguration teacher. "My head was… elsewhere."

"Are you quite alright, Mr. Peverell?" she asks, a frown forming on her face.

Harry tries to smile in a way that doesn't betray his disconcerting thoughts. "Yes. Of course. My mind tends to wander before at least two cups of coffee in the mornings."

It must work, 'cause her face clears, and she smiles back, looking amused now. "I see," she says amicably, although she couldn't be further from seeing anything. "I'm afraid Flitwick is much the same — useless without his daily dose of caffeine. Especially on Mondays."

"Nothing like the beginning of a new week to remind you of the beauty of the weekends, hun?" Harry jokes lamely, keeping his eyes from straying back to the Slytherin table by pure force of will. It's too early, and Snape is much too close.

Then, from over Harry's shoulder, comes a lively "right you are, my boy" from Dumbledore, as the man sits in his place, calling his attention, and all plans of getting back to his study of Snape fall through.

All throughout the meal, Harry tries to engage, to pretend he's interested in what's being said, to act like a newcomer should among his peers, and yet all he can do is grip his thigh hard enough to feel the pain in the knuckles of his fingers and pray it's enough to hold him together until the start of morning classes.

Fuck.

* * *

It takes three long days for the sixth-year, Gryffindor and Slytherin class to arrive. It feels like an eternity — the waiting. The Dueling Club is only open to the sixth and seventh-year, per Harry's insistence, but still, somehow, it felt as though he had endless classes to teach and names to remember. It seems like every student in this goddamn castle is excited to curse one another, for Christ's sake.

Nevertheless, the day does arrive, late as it is, and Harry is doing his best to keep his composure as he tries to teach Remus, his godfather, his father, his mother, and Severus all at the same time, without giving himself away.

In the back of his mind, though, Harry is already waiting for the other shoe to drop. With such a group, he would be a fool to expect things to run smoothly from the get-go.

_Who thought it would be a good idea to give teenagers access to wands and powerful hexes, anyway?_

It feels very much like courting danger. Some shit will happen, it's just a matter of when, Harry thinks.

And it does. Half-an-hour into his class.

It happens fast. Harry is walking around the room, correcting the posture of some students and praising the ones who got the spell right with minimal coaxing, when something in the corner of his eyes catches his attention.

Lucius Malfoy and Snape are engrossed in their own practice, taking turns at being the one casting the spell, and thus, far too unaware of what's happening around them; which, in turn, creates the perfect opportunity for somebody else to take advantage of their open backs. It galls Harry beyond comprehension that it's his father — James Potter, his mind corrects — who chooses to raise his wand against a fellow student inside Harry's classroom.

Worse, still, is that James' wand is pointed straight at Severus. Behind him, Sirius is grinning in anticipation, celebrating their victory too early, too foolishly. The scene is foreign and uncomfortably familiar at the same time, and something in Harry's blood boils to the point of irrationality, triggering the sort of protectiveness he's only now discovering to be possible within him.

So, yeah, it happens fast. Harry takes notice of the entire scene in mere seconds, and just as James opens his mouth and breathes a curse, he throws himself between the two boys, stepping in front of the bright red spell intended for Severus.

It's not even a choice. Harry _has_ to protect Severus — he needs to. No one is going to hurt him, not while Harry is still living and breathing and definitely _not_ in his damn classroom.

The _protego_ erupts from his empty hand wordlessly, strong enough to draw the attention of every single student in his class and to not only deter James' spell but to make the boy lose his footing and trip, falling to the ground on his arse. The shield holds, and James'_ tripping hex_ fades away into nothing.

Silence holds.

Harry spins around in his place to face Severus, who's looking at him like he's a certified nutjob. "Are you alright?" He asks, knowing he's being both ridiculous and inappropriate and yet way past the point of giving a shit. His eyes run up and down Severus' body, searching for a wound he _knows_ is not there.

"Me? Of course," Severus confirms, sounding unsteady for the first time since Harry arrived at Hogwarts. "I doubt any spell could've crossed that shield." And it's a jab, a prod to see the reaction it evoked.

On any other day, Harry would've indulged him. Perhaps he still might, later. But not now, though, not when he's still close to bursting with unchanneled adrenaline, and the whole class is watching his reactions, whispering about it under their breaths.

"Good," he says, forcefully. It's all wrong — a deep, sharp voice he never used with others, never mind with sixth-years.

Harry needs to get his shit together. Now. Severus is fine — nothing happened. James is a dumb child, a bully who's been allowed too much leeway by Dumbledore, yes, but he's still just a sixteen-year-old student, who could pose no more of a threat to Severus than any of the other kids.

He's not a death-eater, he's not a killer, he's not a danger. He's not Voldemort.

Allowing his training to take over, Harry turns back to face the Gryffindor. The boy is patting some imaginary dust off his uniform, already back on his feet. "Mister Potter, can you explain what just happened?" Harry asks — demands — as he stares at him, sending a sharp glare in Sirius' direction when he opens his mouth to help his best friend.

Young James cowers. "Sir, I— I was just playing with Sirius," he stutters pitifully. "I'm sure it was a mist—"

"You would do well not lying to me, Mr. Potter. I believe I pay enough attention over my class to see what might be a wayward spell flying off course and what's a purposely cast hex threatening the safety of one of my students," Harry says, and his voice is a whip, cracking the air with its force. "Do you disagree?"

"No! No, sir, of course not," James hurries to appease him, and it's in that moment that it becomes clear that he's actually afraid of Harry. His body language speaks volumes, transmitting all of his fears loud and clear to anyone paying attention.

Harry closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. He won't lose it — he's okay. Severus is fine. "Thirty points from Gryffindor for trying to harm another student. And detention," he sentences, although he knows better than to put the both of them in the same room so soon after today's disaster. "Report to Professor McGonagall tonight at eight for it, Mr. Potter. The rest of you, class dismissed for the day. Go."

There's a beat of silence, and then, as his words sink in, everyone rushes to grab their bags and runoff out the room, speaking way too loud about the shitshow that had just went down in class. Harry remains where he is, struggling even to open his eyes and watch the room getting progressively emptier.

He almost convinces himself that this is it — that he's done — when James Potter reaches the doorway, but before he can stop it, his mouth open and the words cross his lips.

"Mr. Potter," he calls, making several students halt mid-step and turn in his direction. Near the window, still packing his bag, Harry takes notice of Severus raising his head to watch the scene. For reasons he rather not examine too closely, it makes Harry's voice go frighteningly cold. "Do _not_ let me catch you attempting to harm someone in my classroom again. I will not be so lenient, shall this happen again. Do I make myself clear?"

The boy visibly gulps and takes a step back. "Yes. Crystal clear, Professor. It won't happen again. I'm sorry."

Harry believes him. "Good. Now go," he says, dismissing him with a wave of a hand. The sooner the room is empty, the sooner Harry can grab a glass of whisky and drink his shit away.

The room never gets empty, though. Severus is still there, waiting, when the last student leaves his class.

Of course he is.

Harry doesn't think before he wards the room — basically locking them both inside — and strides forward until he's standing in front of... Severus? Snape? _Fuck_.

He's running on adrenaline, on fire and magic. He looks and he sees the boy and he loses whatever last grip he might have had over his questionable sanity.

And so, unceremoniously, Harry grabs his left arm and shoves the sleeve of his robes out of the way until Snape's forearm is exposed. He ignores' the boy's attempts at getting away, easily holding him in place, his focus all zeroed in on the smooth, unblemished skin that's revealed to him.

The relief running through Harry's body is so sharp that his breath hitches, getting stuck in his throat between one inhale and the next. Merlin, he's not marked yet. Harry's not too late; Snape won't have to waste his life being a prisoner to a sicko, having to face every day in the mirror his worse life choice.

The mark isn't there, and Harry wants to weep.

"I can't believe it," he murmurs, eying Snape's limb in suspicion, as though it could be tricking him. Giving him hope only to squash it later on.

At his words, Snape goes quiet. He had been saying shit — probably threatening to hex Harry into oblivion for daring to touch him without consent — but the second Harry speaks, giving voice to his incredulity, the Slytherin stills.

"Were you so certain of my affiliations?" He questions, voice low and full of hidden meaning.

Harry knows he should release Snape. The whole interaction is beyond improper — the longer he allows the moment to stretch, the heavier the atmosphere grows. The right thing to do would be to step back, apologize profusely for his actions, and forget the whole interaction ever happened in the first place. That's what Harry should do.

What he does, however, is tighten his grip on Snape's arm, holding the boy's wrist with such strength, it will surely leave a mark. When he speaks next, Harry doesn't raise his eyes, doesn't move an inch.

"I know," he says. And Harry did know — about Snape's intentions, about his friends, about the spells, the potions, his need for approval, appreciation. "I needed to be sure. To see it for myself. _I needed it_."

Snape frowns. "We have never met before, Professor. You know nothing about me and my life."

Oh, how wrong he is. Painfully, achingly wrong.

Harry steps back, pulling his hand back. "I believe I know quite a lot, actually," he says, like the fool he is.

"You know nothing!" Snape sneers, eyes narrowing in disgust. "Don't presume to act so familiar with me, Professor."

Harry doesn't know what to say. He knows what he wants to say — but hadn't he done enough for one day? He shouldn't have touched him, grabbed him and acted as though he has any right to do so. Harry understands how confusing this must be for Snape, who believes he's only another adult, another nobody.

In the end, Harry says nothing. He stares, eyes shifting between the still exposed arm and Snape's slitted eyes. He drinks in the sight and tries not to give himself away with his facial expression.

Snape face sours even further at his silence, as though it personally offends him, so he grabs his bag and leaves without another backward glance, stomping away with far too much grace for a teenager.

On his way out, he slams the door.

Harry would never admit it, but he flinches at the loud noise.

And there Snape goes, walking away without a single care in the world, eager to get back to his dormitory and get a decent night of sleep, having no clue on the storm brewing inside Harry's mind. Snape goes, taking his book, his questions, his presence, and Harry can do little else than to drop his weight on the chair behind him and close his eyes.

Snape is so hateful, so full of anger, and disdain, and disgust for the world at large, with the biggest possible chip on his shoulder, always so quick to believe the worst about others and, worst, about himself. It's clear to Harry that Snape doesn't have a good opinion about him. But then, why should he?

He's sixteen. Fucking sixteen, and already so goddamn jaded. Harry wants to hit his head against the wall.

This is gonna be so much harder than he predicted.

There's a strange feeling pooling in his gut as he keeps staring at place Snape had been standing, which feels vaguely like guilt and too much like regret and loss. Harry is frozen in place, staring and looking and watching and trying so damn hard to see, to understand where it had all gone wrong.

Had he lost it already?

Is it far too late to save him, to show this teenager just how badly he's screwing up his life, to open his eyes to the hole he's digging with his own hands and from which he'll never crawl out of once he reaches the bottom? Is it?

What if it is?

Has Harry really travelled so many fucking years into the past only to get stuck watching Severus flow adrift, lost and hopeless as he tries to deal with the shitty hand fate handed him?

What if, in the end, he's made a huge mistake? What if he gave up on his house, and his belongings, and, shit, his friends, and his entire goddamn life just to get a front-row seat to the train wreck that is the 'Severus' Show'?

It's entirely possible. Maybe even likely. Who knew? Harry certainly didn't. Couldn't, no matter how well prepared he had considered himself to be when he embarked on this crazy journey a few days ago.

All that's left now is a whole bunch of waiting around and trying to come up with some brilliant idea on how to soften the edges of the most hardened man Harry had ever met in his unfortunate life — all without giving away who he is and why he's doing that.

* * *

Harry pours himself another glass. His fifth.

He feels untethered — weightless as he drifts away.

_God, what is he doing?_

This is wrong. Wrong beyond belief, all of it. Harry shouldn't be singling him out from the other students, blatantly protecting him, touching him, acting so goddamn involved in the life of a sixteen-year-old. Harry is twenty-eight — more than ten years his senior.

Beyond the obvious earthly possessions Harry had to throw at his feet, what else could he give the boy? His growing obsession, his guilt, his constant vigilance, his overwhelming desire to fix anything bad that could ever happen to Snape's life? No, of course not. Who would want that?

Staying in Hogwarts had been a mistake, agreeing to teach a fucking Dueling Club an even bigger one, Harry thinks, knowing that there's not much he can do now. He's chosen his path, all he can do now is play with the cards he has and hope for the best — or, at the very least, that he doesn't screw this up badly enough to have Aurors knocking on his door one of these days.

* * *

**Author's Note: Oh, Harry... So very oblivious. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Hello, beauties! I'm terribly sorry for the wait, but I've been in an accident and I'm only now starting to get better. As it is, I'm stuck on forced bed rest, so at least I'll have loads of time to write and edit. lol. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter.**

* * *

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,

you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho

lies dead by the side of the road.

You must see how this could be you,

how he too was someone

who journeyed through the night with plans

and the simple breath that kept him alive.

— _Kindness (part 3) _

_by Naomi Shihab Nye_

* * *

Harry doesn't give up. Can't give up — not after everything. He already knew it would be difficult; stopping because of that — or imagining Snape should welcome him with open arms on the first day — would be ridiculous.

So he tracks him down. It barely takes any effort — it doesn't surprise Harry that the boy spends most of his free time in the library, searching for new books, studying, writing, reading.

He's not doing any of that at the moment, though. Instead, Severus is glaring at a particular shelf, looking as if the books there had personally offended him and his entire family. Harry knew that look very well because he had been on the receiving end of it more often than not while at Hogwarts.

"What did the poor books do to you?" He asks with a smile, leaning against the bookcase. It's good to see him again, Harry finds, even after the disaster that had been their last time together.

Severus' head turns sharply. "Professor," he hisses between grit teeth, as though it pains him to be polite.

"Hello, Mr. Snape," Harry greets, also a little weird out by the formal title. God, what the hell? "I'm not teaching anything at the moment; you can call me Harry if you want," He offers, knowing better than to expect the Slytherin to accept it, however.

Severus quirks an eyebrow. "I don't believe that would be appropriate."

Harry shrugs. "I don't mind," he says. "But suit yourself. Now, would you care to explain why you're standing here, glaring at the books?"

"It's none of your business!" Severus snaps, all sharp tongue and heat, but then seems to realize who he's speaking to and his eyes widen. He opens his mouth.

Before he can take it back or — god forbid — apologize, Harry waves it away. "It's fine," he assures. "I'm just trying to help, though. If you tell me what's bothering you, I might be able to help."

Harry's easiness unsettles Severus for a few beats, and it takes him a while to find his footing and sneer again. "I doubt it," he says, dismissively.

"Try me."

Severus pauses. "I'm searching for a Potions book," he says, mentioning to the section of the library he's in. "The school doesn't have a copy, though. Madam Prince said I should search for an adequate substitute here. Obviously, I wasn't having much luck in my endeavour."

_Ah_, of course.

"Let me guess," Harry teases. "You're looking for an obscure book from centuries ago. Probably falls within Dark spectrum of magic, too."

At his words, anger flashes behind Severus' eyes. "Oh, yes, it must be Dark magic because I'm a Death—"

"Please." Harry raises a hand to stop him. "I don't care if you choose to read about Dark magic. To be honest, most of what the Ministry classifies as Dark magic is bullshit, anyway. I didn't mean to insult you."

"You have a peculiar way of not insulting someone, Professor."

"Human interaction is not my forte," Harry admits, somehow amused by Severus crankiness. "Please, forgive me." He grins. "So, this book. No substitute?"

Severus rolls his eyes, quickly forgetting about the expected polite behaviour. "As I've said."

"That's a pity." Not really, to be honest. Harry wants to do a little victory dance to celebrate the perfect opening. "Fortunately, I may be able to help you."

"Is that so? How?" He drawls, still unamused.

"Well, I happen to have a vast collection of books sitting and collecting dust, right now. Vast enough that I'll bet your book is among them," Harry offers, hoping the opportunity to get his hands on valuable books was enough to tempt the Slytherin.

It does. Black eyes shine with unrestrained desire.

Still, suspicion _is_ Severus middle name. "And I'm supposed to believe you'll let me borrow it for no good reason?"

"Isn't knowledge the best reason there is?" Harry cannot help himself, although he tries his best to say that with a straight face.

It works, thankfully. The corner of Severus' mouth twitches, and he has to fight back a laugh, so Harry mentally pats himself on the back for the good work.

"So it is," he agrees. "Very well. Should we arrange a suitable time for me to visit your office?"

Oh, like hell that Harry is letting him escape this easily. "Why not now? No time like the present, right? Let's go."

"Now?" Severus asks, taken back. But he turns back and a quick _accio_ leaves his mouth, bringing his heavy-looking bag to his hands.

"I can teach you a spell for that," Harry says, pointing to the overflowing bag. Like Severus' robes, the bag looks old and used, despite the many layers of magic Harry could feel coming from the items. He had a solution for both, as well. Later.

"What spell?" Severus demands, walking alongside him as they leave the library.

"You shouldn't carry all this weight around, it's bad for your shoulders. A spell to give you more room and make it weightless." Hermione's spell. Hermione's perfected Undetectable Extension Charm. "It's a hard Charm to master, but I'm sure you're more than capable of learning it. If you wish, though, I can cast it for you in your bag in the meanwhile. It's undetectable, so you don't have to worry about others noticing — if that's a concern."

"Undetectable? How? I've never heard about such a spell."

"It's not the sort of magic adults want to teach children," Harry explains gently. "It can be used for rather nefarious purposes, I guess. And since it doesn't really fit into the curriculum of any of the subjects taught here, there's no real reason to bother."

"But you'll teach it in your class?"

"Heavens no. Like I said, it's a trick piece of magic and I have no wish to spend days teaching it around. I'll teach you — that's it."

"Doesn't that constitute favouritism?"

"Albus knew who he was hiring when he offered me this job," he assures with a grin. "He'll understand, don't worry."

Harry opens the door to his private rooms, letting Severus walk in front of him so he can see the bookcases covering all the walls of his living room, filled with books from the ceiling to the floor.

It's impressive if he says so himself, and from way Severus draws a sharp breath, he probably agrees.

"Feel free to search for your book," Harry says, drinking in the sight of a speechless young Severus Snape. "I would begin from the back; it's where the oldest ones are."

"This is…" The words die out in his mouth.

"A lot? Don't worry about it. They are not going anywhere," Harry says. "You may read any book you please. I only ask that, if you decide to read the ones at the top shelves, that you do it in here — where I can keep an eye on you. They are… dangerous, and it would make me feel better to know you're within eyesight."

"The others?" Severus asks, nodding in understanding.

"Do with them as you want. If you want to take them to your dormitory, that's okay, too."

"Take them?"

"This isn't a library, Severus," Harry says, mentally wincing at the casual way in which he uses the boy's name. From the look on his face, Severus definitely takes notice of his familiarity, but he says nothing about it. "I don't care if you want to keep reading in your room."

"Why do you have so many, in the first place?"

"Family inheritance." Harry looks away, trying not to think too deeply about it. "These are not all of them. Many are in my vaults."

"There's more?" Severus questions, both eyebrows raising in surprise.

"Sure. Loads more, actually. We can go see the vaults one of these days, if you want — check if any of them interest you. It would be good to see them put to good use."

"I. That would be appreciated," Severus agrees politely, but the way his hands are twisting in place betrays his excitement. He's too polite to say so, but clearly he wants that a lot more than the bland tone would suggest.

"Okay, okay." Harry laughs. "I'll arrange a visit, greedy. Take a look around, for now. I know you're dying to — I'll just be here, planning my lessons."

Severus looks guilty for a flash. "I don't need to—"

"Don't bother," Harry waves away the apology. "I don't require tending to, Severus. Go to your books, I'll be fine."

* * *

A week later, Harry finds Severus at the wrong end of James Potter's wand. Again.

Young James is about to curse Severus — and he's proud of it, too. Running his mouth about his own superiority, his supposed skills, his spells. It's nauseating, and in a flash, Harry starts to tremble with barely contained anger.

Christ, this foolish boy.

This arrogant, stupid boy who doesn't know a thing about the cruel, adult life waiting for him outside the protection of Hogwarts walls. Who hasn't faced a single struggle in all his short years and yet feels entitled enough to roam around bullying others.

James Potter. The sole heir to the Potter's fortune. A rich kid who, instead of enjoying the freedom of his youth, is too busy tormenting Severus — who had done nothing to him, really, other than having Lily's attention when she wouldn't give James the time of day.

It's infuriating. Maddening. _How dare he?_ How dare James behave as if he's above the rules of the school to take out his frustrations on Severus.

Harry tries to breathe, but the air gets stuck in his throat, and suddenly, the wide corridor starts to feel small and claustrophobic. It feels cloying, the damp, cold air hitting Harry's skin, freezing his body.

That's when he realizes he's seconds away from snapping.

_Merlin, he's going to lose it._

Harry is going to lose hold of his magic and attack this sixteen-year-old kid right there, in plain sight to whoever might be passing by, and he's going to enjoy it.

_C'mon_, a dark, twisted voice whispers in Harry's mind, sounding almost eager for the violence to come. _How good will it feel to take the boy down a notch? Won't it be glorious, to wipe the floor with his smug face and watch as the first signs of terror seep into place, overtaking that crooked, pitiful smile?_

Shit. Harry breathes, trying to relax, to let it go, to ignore the urges, to be the better man in this situation.

He's an adult; they are teenagers. He cannot afford to let his magic loose on them — not right there, not now.

To distract himself, Harry barks. "What is going on here?"

They both jump in surprise, clearly not having noticed his presence before.

"Professor!" Severus says, shock written on his every line.

"Holy fuck!" James curses. "Merlin. What the—"

"You would do well watching your tone with me, Mister Potter," Harry interrupts. "I am, after all, very much still your teacher."

But the boy doesn't learn. "You let Snape say whatever he wants!" He proclaims, all self-righteousness and entitlement.

"Is your name Severus Snape?" Harry asks dryly.

James frowns. "No."

"Then mind your tone," Harry tells him. "Twenty points from Gryffindor. And go to your room. It's almost curfew, and you have classes in the morning."

"This is so un—"

"You cannot possibly be giving me backchat after I've just caught you harassing a student, Mister Potter. Surely I must be hallucinating, yes?" He asks, and he's not proud of it, but his voice goes a touch lower. "Otherwise, I would be glad to escort you to the Headmaster for a proper explanation of tonight's actions and the fairness of them?"

At that, James lowers his eyes. "No. I. I'll just be… going to my room. Goodnight, Professor." And he leaves, without waiting for a response.

Harry turns to Severus, who had regained his composure in the meanwhile. "Come with me."

"You had no right—"

"I have every right to intervene in any situation I feel necessary, as part of the staff of this school. Do not presume to tell me what I can or cannot do to protect," _you,_ "my students."

"I wonder," Severus sneers, but falls into step with him. "Would you have the same for any other student, though?"

Harry leads them down the stairs, taking a shortcut without thinking about it. He needs to deliver Severus to his dormitory — this instant."What do you want from me, Severus? Should I've allowed him to hex you, is that it?"

"Do please give me the courtesy of believing me to be a better dueller than James Potter."

"I do," Harry agrees, sighing under his breath. "Mr. Potter wasn't playing fair, however. Trust me."

"What?"

Harry stays silent until they reach the entrance to the Slytherin's common rooms. "Pettigrew was hiding behind a statue a few steps to your left. I doubt he would've stayed out of it should the situation escalate to a proper fight," he finally explains. "I don't question your abilities, Severus. The situation… well, annoys me."

Underestimation of the century.

Without giving him the opportunity to say something back, Harry all but shoves him to his dormitory. "Go. It's very late, Severus, and you have classes in the morning," Harry says, watching as the boy narrows his eyes in suppressed anger, but gives in, nodding his assent before whispering the password.

Harry stays to make sure the boy goes inside instead of trying to run off once more. Then, after he made sure Snape was safe, Harry finds the first empty room in that corridor and trash it until it's impossible to discern what its former use had been.

* * *

Harry is late.

Three minutes late, which, for him, is not a big deal in the grand scheme of things; however, even before arriving at his destination and meeting the boy, Harry already knows his lack of punctuality will not be appreciated. Time had no bearing on Severus strictness with himself and with others.

Harry turns the corner, and there he is, fidgeting with the sleeves of his robes and scowling at the general area for no apparent reason, as though the whole world had done him a great injustice only by existing. It shouldn't be amusing, nor should it force the corners of Harry's mouth upward, but unsurprisingly, it does, and Harry has no time to mask his mirth before Severus spots him.

"You're late," he informs as soon as their eyes meet, the frown on his forehead deepening. It's clear that Harry has already begun the day needing to make up for something.

"I'm aware," Harry agrees. "I'm sorry. I'm quite the mess in the mornings — it wasn't my intention to leave you waiting."

Severus' eyes narrow, but he seems to accept the apology. "It's visible," he drawls. "Your hair is unbelievably messy — do you not own a comb or a mirror?"

He speaks the words, seemly not aware of what he's saying at the moment, but then, as soon as they are out, hovering on the air between them, his eyes flash with regret and what looks to be resignation, like he understands how open he's left himself with that remark. Severus clearly expects Harry to take advantage of his openness to say a cutting comment or two.

For that reason alone, Harry takes great pleasure in allowing his smile to widen, taking the critic without a flinch. "Ah, _this_?" He asks, reaching up to ruffle his unruly hair. "I've given up, to be perfectly honest. It's impossible to get it to settle down, and I can't be bothered to keep trying." Harry shrugs. "Not like it matters; it's just hair."

His words seem to confound him. "Why are you doing this?" Severus demands, and it is evident that he's unused to being offered any kindness without some kind of price attached to it.

Just to be contrary, Harry quips. "Why not?"

"People don't throw their money around for random students," he stresses, pursuing his lips. "I don't need your pity."

"Pity? Now, why would I pity you?" Harry asks. "And you are not a random student; surely you know that. Stop looking for the negative side in everything, Severus; you are much too young for it."

"I'm sixteen," Severus protests.

"As I said, much too young," Harry repeats, delighted by the almost pouty look on the Slytherin face. "Anyway, aren't Slytherin's supposed to enjoy seizing the opportunities presented to them? Lighten up. Maybe I just want to help my favourite student. How about that?"

Several emotions cross Severus face as he speaks, and for a minute it looks like he will comment on the Slytherin jab, but then his shoulder sag a bit, and he cocks his head. "I'm your favourite?" he questions, incredulous. The idea of being anyone's favourite seems to boggle his mind, and Harry wants to burn the world for what it's done to him.

"_Yes_," he says straight away, leaving no doubts about his meaning. "You think I open my private rooms to just any student?" The '_to any other student_' is left unspoken but heavily implied.

Severus looks so unsettled, searching for the right words to say, that Harry can't help but tease. "Surely you are used to being favoured?" he continues. "I can't imagine Slughorn doing anything but singing your praises."

At that, the young man walking beside him tenses. "I'm afraid I'm not… distinguished enough to be among Professor Slughorn's special little group."

And Harry cannot believe it. "What?" he snaps, and it comes out much more forceful than he meant to, but the momentary anger clouds his mind enough that he forgets to keep hold of his temper. "Did he— Severus, are you telling me that he hasn't asked you— are you not in his Slug Club?"

Severus only shakes his head, and that's when Harry realizes that they've stopped moving and he's gripping Severus' arm with way more force than is appropriate, demanding answers of him in a way he has no right to. Harry has no rights to any of Severus personal life, no matter how much he wishes to infiltrate himself in it.

In a flash, Harry releases the proffered arm. He doesn't take a step back, though, as he should, remaining very much in Severus' personal space. He can't move, not yet. "Forgive me," he rasps, closing his eyes, trying to rein his emotions back together. God, who is the teenager between them? "I didn't mean to…" Suddenly, Harry's eyes snap open. "Did I hurt you?"

Did he?

Harry studies Severus face, his arm, as though he can see the damage done under his robes, as he tries to gauge how tight he had been squeezing, but it's impossible to know for sure.

His panicked tone seems to drawn Severus out of his daze. "Don't be absurd," he says. "I'm not made of glass, Professor. Do stop treating me as such."

In another situation, Harry might've cracked a joke at those words, something light-hearted to lighten the mood and steer them back to save grounds, but it's early, far too cold, and Severus is standing much too close for comfort, and Harry's magic is pulsing brightly.

"Are you okay?" He insists, raising his hand to touch Severus' shoulder but re-thinking the wiseness of the action and allowing it to fall before it reached its target.

Severus studies him quietly for a long moment, then he raises his own hand and lets it settle on Harry's shoulder, lightly and hesitant. Waiting for the touch to be rejected, clearly. "Harry, I'm fine," he assures, soft and quiet.

The name crosses his lips with an easiness that had no right to being there, on the mouth of a person who had never spoken his first name before, but it is, and Harry draws a sharp breath.

For goodness sake, it shouldn't sound this intimate, this good to hear his name leaving Severus' mouth, and yet it does. He's waited so long for this, for the chance of having the man right in front of him, but nothing could've prepared Harry for this, this closeness, this energy crackling between them.

Fuck.

* * *

Harry nods his head in greeting as he enters the shop. "Good afternoon. We're here for some robes," he informs, mentioning to the young man next to him.

"Of course," the woman behind the counter says, eyes scanning Severus from head to toe in an examining manner. "School robes?"

From the corner of his eyes, Harry sees Severus opening his mouth to agree, so he jumps to correct her before he can limit his options in such a way. "To begin with," Harry says, walking to the comfiest looking chair by the central mirror of the store and sitting down, crossing his legs. Getting comfortable. "Please get him whatever he asks for."

Which is the wrong thing to say, of course.

"I don't require you to dress me, Professor," Severus drawls with an offended air, straightening his back.

"It wasn't my intention to suggest you did. It's a gift — it's meant to be seen as one."

"It's not proper to spend so much money on a gift to a student."

It isn't; he's right. Harry wishes he could be bothered to give a fuck. "Sue me," he teases, shrugging. "Thinking of it as a gift to me, if it pleases you."

A brow raises high. "Dressing me is a gift to you?"

God, there are so many ways that sentence could be interpreted. There are about nine inappropriate responses Harry wants to give, but if showering his student with new clothes is bad, flirting with him would be infinitely worse. He bites his tongue, barely.

Harry chooses to keep it short and sweet. "Yes."

And thus, it begins. Seeing her opening, Amy — Harry later finds out her name is Amy — takes over and starts digging clothes from every corner of the shop.

It's a slow, maddening sort of torture. Shirt after shirt, trouser after trouser, robes and ties and coats and scarfs and a parade of endless clothes that the woman keeps throwing on Severus' lap.

She insists Severus try them all out, obviously. And, for some unfathomed reason, the Slytherin actually follows her instructions, going in and out of the dressing room as requested, each time wearing something new.

Until he steps out wearing a set of black robes that make the air catch in Harry's lungs.

"What do you think?" Amy asks, as she has done for each item, only this time Harry doesn't have it in him to answer.

_Merlin_, these robes.

The trousers are black and sleek and soft-looking and they hug Severus' legs in all the wrong ways. Harry is torn between wanting to rip them out of the man's body with his hands and falling to his knees to beg Severus never to take them off again.

"Tighter," Severus requests without mercy, nodding in agreement when she clips more of the fabric together in her hands, and Harry considers how likely a heart-attack is to a man his age.

Twenty-eight is not so young anymore; maybe he is dying. Maybe this is how the boy-who-lived will meet his end: watching the tailoring of a pair of trousers. It seems only fair — if Harry could choose, he'd be okay with that.

"Perhaps another colour?" She suggests. "Red would suit your complexion."

Severus pursue his lips, unwilling to compromise. "Black will do."

And Harry should keep his goddamn mouth shut, he really should, but he's a bastard who's going to hell anyway, so ignores his internal voice screaming in protest and says: "Maybe something green?"

It's barely a suggestion; more like the whisper of a guilty desire.

Severus turns at the sound of his voice — probably shocked that Harry is saying something after such a long silence — and their eyes meet. Harry is painfully aware that his own eyes burn green, so fucking green after he ditched the glasses.

"Green?" She asks, cocking her head as she considers the suggestion and completely ignoring the tension rising in the room. "I suppose it would be acceptable. Not a pastel, however; maybe a darker shade, a jewel—"

"Emerald," Severus interrupts, eyes locked with Harry's still.

"Hm. Yes, emerald will do just fine," she agrees.

Harry wants to protest, to say that he meant a deeper shade, something like a Slytherin, forest green, but Severus looks far too intense, and the words die on his lips.

The woman is right. Emerald will do just fine.

With a nod of the head, Severus goes back to the dressing room and Harry takes a much-needed breath. God, he wants a drink, but at that stage, a glass will do nothing for him — he will need a whole fucking bottle to try to forget how good Severus had looked wearing those robes.

Harry turns to face Amy. "Separate anything he wants," he says, giving her a pointed look and hoping the woman will understand his meaning without further words.

She does, thankfully. "Of course, Mr. Peverell." She considers him evenly, lowering her voice so that the words stayed between them. "Perhaps some new shoes would be appreciated?"

The words sparkle a feeling that nearly overtakes Harry in its intensity, and he wants to shower Severus with all the things he never had, all the things he secretly wants but has already given up on the chances of having. He deserves all of it and more.

Harry has the money, and he'll spend 'till the very last knuckle on Severus. Gladly.

Maybe it's because Harry had a similar childhood, where he wanted things well beyond his possibilities, but the thought of Severus hesitation and incredulity tugs at an old feeling of inadequacy Harry has never quite overcome, and he wants so much better than that for Severus.

"Yes," Harry hurries to say. "A couple, at least. A good boot, too. He spends a lot of time with his potions."

She smiles, a knowing look on her face. "I'll see that he tries some different pairs."

"Thanks," Harry mumbles, embarrassed.

Amy leaves to fetch more stuff, and Harry shifts in his place, trying to get comfortable again. He knows they are in for a few more rounds of torture, at the very least.

In the end, he's wrong. The rest of the afternoon is surprisingly pleasant. There's a true, gratifying feeling in watching Severus trying on expensive clothes he had always wanted to wear but could never dream to afford before. He looks both amazed and a touch incredulous, as though he can't quite bring himself to believe it's actually happening.

There's an embarrassment on his part, too. When it comes the time to select the things he wants to take, Severus seems to silently struggle with his better sense, watching the piles upon piles of fabric with an alarmed look on his face. His fingers curl around the pair of shoes he's holding on to.

"Merlin, Severus," Harry grins, exasperated. He hopes the light tone will ease the tension a bit. "Just get it, alright? I've already said I'm paying for anything you want."

Severus swallows. "I'm aware. But this is a lo—"

"It's fine," Harry says, waving the concern away. He looks over Severus' shoulder and locks eyes with Amy, who's already silently folding the clothes into neat squares. "We're ready to go."

As he speaks, Harry tries to plead with his eyes for her not to make a big deal out of the final price. The last thing he needs is Severus getting overwhelmed with the numbers and freaking out.

Thankfully, his concerns are for nought; the woman is a pro. Wordlessly, she slides a discreet piece of paper for him to sign with his vault numbers and, once he's done so, is equally as silent when he all but shoves the paper back into her hands when he sees Severus approaching them.

Harry decides to stop by at a later date to thank her for the help and leave her the biggest tip of her life.

All in all, it's a good day.

* * *

"It's late. What are you doing out of bed?" Harry asks Severus when he finds the Slytherin roaming around the castle after his curfew.

"What are _you_ doing in the dungeons?" Severus snaps back, with the sort of tone that Harry would've never allowed any other student to get away with.

As it is, he merely raises an eyebrow at the rudeness. "I'm a teacher; it's part of my job to patrol the school. All parts of it, I'm afraid."

Severus has the grace to glace away. He doesn't say anything, though.

"Go back to your room, Severus. It's far too late."

"I can't," he says, struggling to get the words out, pass his tight lips, and his voice falters as he speaks, betraying the level of his inner tumult. Harry wishes it took more than that to crack his professional façade.

"What happened?"

There's a long pause.

"Nightmares," is all Severus says, and it's enough.

"I see," Harry says, and he does see. By then, he probably could write a dozen books on nightmares and their consequences on the human body. "Walking alone on this damp corridor will do little for your mental state." He pauses, considering the wiseness of his next words before deciding he doesn't give a shit anymore. "Follow me."

Without waiting for a response, Harry turns and begins the walk back to his room, knowing by instinct alone that Severus will follow along.

They walk in silence, and when they enter the room, Harry grabs and hands over the book he had found and put aside to give to Severus the next day.

"Harry! Do you even know what—This book is invaluable!" Severus states, caressing the spine with the sort of reverence that Harry never quite managed to have for any kind of book in his life. It's a kind of desire and longing that speaks of a thirst for knowledge that he'd only seen in one other person before, and she's no longer around to caress his books. "Where did you find it? Our library doesn't have a copy — not even at the restricted section."

It doesn't surprise him. Any book owned by the Blacks had no place in a school for children.

"It was in my family's vault," Harry lies, stoping behind Severus to glance at the cover and feel the magic emanating from it. Hm, not as bad as it could be. "You may read it if you wish. Here, of course. It wouldn't be wise to take it outside my quarters." My wards, he completes in his mind but doesn't dare to add out loud.

Severus twists in place, eyes widening in shock. "You can't be serious."

Harry takes great pleasure in poking at Severus earnest expression. "I am serious; therefore, you must be wrong."

"Harry! This is a family heirloom — how can you just give me this sort of access?"

"Well, I don't give a shit about family inheritance, so there's that."

Something dark flashes behind Severus' eyes. "It's easy to say that when you have all this at your disposal."

"I wasn't born with all this, Severus," Harry shares, feeling a sudden need to explain himself, to show him that he understands how shitty life can be and what it feels like to long for things you cannot have. "In the end, these are all just things. It won't change your life."

"What will?"

"Nothing. You either choose to change, or you'll remain in the same path for the rest of your days — there's no cop-out, no safe answer, no saviour to save the day. Always be wary of people who offer you an easy way out," he says, a bit heavy-handed at the end, yeah, but unable to resist the opportunity of planting the doubt in Severus mind.

He has such little time. Every second _must_ count.

* * *

"Are we never going to talk about it?" Severus asks on a thursday night.

"Talk about what?"

"Your magic."

"What about it?"

"Are you being purposely dull? The fact that you constantly cast wandless, wordless magic as if it's nothing. How you don't even reach for your wand most of the times. Maybe the fact that you keep such a tight hold over it that your magic is almost untraceable?"

Harry hides a wince. "Any wizard or witch can cast wandless or wordless with enough practice, Severus," he says, bending the truth slightly. "It's not exactly a trick I'm inventing."

"No. Most of the wizarding population will never be able to cast either wandless or wordless, no matter how much they may try. Most lack the precision, focus, visual intent, or raw power to do so." Severus stops, then adds with a pointed look. "You do both, at the same time."

"I am a teacher. It makes sense that I'm slightly above average, no?"

"I wouldn't call it slightly. I've seen you cast a Patronus without your wand, Harry."

"Are you trying to flatter me, young man?"

"Don't deflect," Severus snaps, relentless. "What about the way you keep your magic tightly under wraps? I pray you are not hoping to conceal it, because it simmers under the surface, no matter how much you try to suppress it. There's too much of it to keep on such short leash."

Harry sighs. "I do it because I have to. Believe me when I say that you wouldn't like to be present when I lose hold of my magic."

"Lose hold? What are you, a toddler? Adult wizards don't lose hold of their magic. Not unless there's a reason for it."

"As you so wisely pointed out, my magic is unlike most. Magic reacts to intent, to the will of the wizard, to their words and spells, right?"

"Of course."

"Well, mine is tied more to my emotions, so it responds to whichever feeling I'm feeling at the moment. That's why it's unpredictable — because it grows out of control too fast."

Severus' eyes narrow. "I don't imagine you mean happy emotions."

"In a way, I do. As you said, I can cast a Patronus with more ease than most, and that's because my magic reacts to my happiness more readily than it would if it weren't so connected to my emotions." Harry pauses. "Those are not the kind of magic that I'm concerned about, I'll admit."

"So, if you get angry...?"

"Or mad, or frustrated, or sad, or anything negative, really, the consequences are a lot grimmer, yes," Harry completes, nodding. "It took me years to perfect the control I have today."

Severus tilts his head in contemplation. "How powerful are you?"

"There's no measurements to magic, Severus."

"Is there any kind of magic you can't do?"

"No," Harry admits bitterly, wishing he could have a different answer to that question. It's disgusting, how his magic ends up adapting and transforming, how he left the war with kills to his name and a track record for unforgivables and even worse hexes and curses.

Severus is relentless. "What did you do before coming here?" He demands, leaning forward in his seat.

"I did many things." Too many, in fact. "But to answer your question, I was an Auror for a few years."

"That explains a lot."

"It does?"

"Yes," Severus says. "The terseness, the vigilance, the way you constantly scan the room, and the thick layer of _glamour_ that I can sense clinging to your skin."

Harry winces. He never wanted to speak about his body. "I need the _glamours_. Trust me."

"Battle wounds?" The Slytherin guesses.

Harry barks out a laugh. "Yes." More accurately than Severus would ever know.

It's almost sweet, the way Severus' eyes soften a bit at that. "They hardly define who you are."

If only Harry knew how to deal with softness. "Thank you, Dr. Phill," he jokes. Deflects.

"Who?"

Harry waves a hand. "It's a joke, nevermind."

Severus pauses, then goes back to his line of questioning. "But why does it feel different?"

"How so?"

"It feels like it's buzzing. Like it's electric, somehow," he says, trying to explain. "Whenever you cast something near me, I feel the electricity of it touching my skin."

Harry stares. Well, that's a new way to describe his magic. "It doesn't feel like that to most people."

"No?"

"Definitely not," he assures, thinking of all the people who had acted scared whenever they so much as felt an ink of Harry's magic permeating the air. "It has been described to me that my magic feels cold, threatening, and oppressing, actually. Dark. People tend to shy away from it."

Severus obviously does not feel that way. "People assumed you were a dark wizard?"

"It's that so hard to believe?"

"Obviously."

Harry cannot help but feel a small burst of affection at the poignant tone. Severus looks so offended on his behalf. "Why?"

"I don't believe you could scare a single person if your life depended on it," he says with absolute certainty.

Oh, the _irony_.

"Just 'cause I don't scare you, Severus, does not mean I cannot scare anybody," Harry gently corrects. "Given the right circumstances, I assure you, I can be very frightening, indeed."

"Surely you jest. You're harmless."

"To you, absolutely. Not to everybody, though."

Severus stops, a calculating glint in his black eyes. "Have you ever harmed a person?"

Harry's mouth twitches, and he nearly flinches. "I have, yes."

Severus seems so shocked, as though his worlds perceptions are changing right there and then, and Harry cannot help himself.

"If you'd like to run now, I'll even give you a head-start," he jokes, biting his bottom lip to prevent a bubble of laughter from erupting from his chest.

If he has to dodge from a nasty _stinging hex _in response, well, Harry is totally fine with that.

* * *

"Give me that," Severus snaps, taking the kettle from Harry's hand without any ceremony and moving to serve them both, just like that. Effortlessly.

It's such a domestic scene — Severus moving around the table, pouring the tea exactly as Harry enjoys it, a scowl in place, marring his face, despite the overall sense of calm settled around the room. The feeling rising inside his chest is foreign and warm, and Harry wants to drown in it.

"You're staring," the Slytherin points out as he returns to his seat, raising an eyebrow and giving Harry a rather significant look.

The last thing Harry wants is to deny how he's feeling, though. "So I am," he says, agrees. Their eyes meet, and lighting strikes. "Thank you for the tea."

"You haven't even touched it yet."

It seems like a request, almost, so Harry promptly picks up his cup and takes a sip, unsurprised with how good it is. It only makes sense that Severus would know how to serve Harry's tea almost better than him.

"Should I ask how you know how I drink my tea?" Harry questions over the rim of his teacup. The warmth from the liquid is pleasant against his cold hands, so Harry keeps holding the porcelain, hoping it's not painted all over his face how protective he is of the damn cup of tea Severus poured him.

Severus' mouth curves upward, his eyes shining with poorly concealed satisfaction. "Seeing as lately I spend my nights here more often than not; it shouldn't come as a surprise that I've observed something as simple as how you take your tea, Harry." He pauses. "Do you not know how I drink mine?"

And it's a tricky question, both because he's very much aware that Harry has served him tea about a hundred times by now and because it has to be obvious how obsessed Harry is with knowing everything there is to know about Severus. At the top of his head, he could tell about fifty food-related quirks Severus had, without breaking a sweat, and if that's not a concerning level of observation for a professor to have with a student, then Harry's not sure what is.

Still, he chooses to go with the truth. It would be pointless to lie, in this case. "You know I do."

Almost as if he's reading Harry's thoughts, Severus cocks his head slightly to the side and asks, "How much do you know about me?"

"Not nearly enough."

The words slip out — thoughtless, carelessly — before Harry can get a hold of his loose tongue. It's a loaded confession, made worse by the serious tone in which he speaks it, without any teasing edge.

It's a slip.

Another one.

* * *

Severus' forehead scrunches in concentration, and it's clear that he's trying very hard to come up with the appropriate answer to the question, as always, unwilling to accept the possibility of not knowing something, and it's all Harry can do to keep himself from reaching out and smoothing the soft skin over with the trace of his fingertips.

_Merlin_, he's walking such a fine line these days.

He wants closeness, and when he gets that, Harry wants more and more, wants to keep erasing the lines separating them until it becomes hard to tell where one begins and the other ends.

It's a heady feeling, and more often than not, Harry ends up with a headache for his efforts to remain casual, distant. He wonders what Severus would do if he knew how much leeway Harry would give him if he dared to reach for it. Wonders just how far Severus would feel tempted to push, to blur the lines on the sand.

Danger, that's what Severus is. Danger of the highest degree and Harry is nearly begging to get burned.

* * *

Severus doesn't even bother to knock on the door anymore. Harry has already keyed him into his complex warding system, and even the snake guarding his door knows how much of a sucker Harry is for the young man, so there's never really anything stopping him from doing just that — walking inside Harry's private quarters, unannounced, whenever he desired.

By then, Harry's way past the point of caring.

"It's late," Harry says in lieu of a greeting, raising an eyebrow. It's less to do with propriety and everything to do with his understanding of Severus' personality.

Whereas Harry couldn't give a shit about proper boundaries, Severus still liked to maintain an image for others. He never drops for a casual visit at 3 a.m in the morning.

"Is he your boyfriend?" Severus asks acerbically.

Harry pauses, and his hand stills mid-air. He knows exactly who his supposed boyfriend is, and it's pathetic. Kingsley — newly graduated Auror, for fuck's sake — came to visit Dumbledore for some reason and they had bumped into each other outside the old man's office. It was far too tempting, and Harry never knew when to keep his distance.

They chatted for half an hour — if that.

There's absolutely no reason to believe they have anything going between them. None.

"That's an inappropriate question," he points out, inwardly wincing at how mild his tone is, delivering the sentence in a way that's much closer to an inquiry than an objection. God, it's like he's not even_ trying_ anymore to pretend, to act like a fucking responsible adult.

"That's not an answer."

Harry inclines his head, conceding the point. "He's not. My boyfriend, I mean."

"Good," Severus says. Satisfied.

Fucking satisfied — happy, even.

What a mess.

What a fucking mess.


	4. Chapter 4

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,

you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.

You must wake up with sorrow.

— _Kindness (part 4) _

_by Naomi Shihab Nye_

* * *

It's the day before Severus' seventeen birthday. Perhaps not the best day to finally have this conversation, but Harry has postponed it long enough and he's had enough. There are some things Severus has to know and to keep prolonging the inevitable would only make Harry second-guess himself over and over again.

"So, are you ready to be an adult?" He asks once they are seated in his living room. Serious, this time. "To make adult choices?"

Severus is equally as serious. "I believe I am, yes."

"There's something I need to speak to you about," Harry admits, already aware that his body language is giving his nervousness away.

"Speak, then." It's all Severus says in response.

"It's about the war... Actually, no, it's about blood purity. More than that, it's about the choices you have from now on." Harry pauses, wondering is he's screwing this up already. It's about so many things, really. "I know you have a skewed vision of muggles because of your father, but, Severus, being an abuser, an aggressor, someone who diminishes others to feel powerful, that's not a muggle thing. Wizards are just as capable, if not more, of taking advantage of those in a vulnerable position."

Severus doesn't even blink, he's so tense. They've never explicitly talked about Severus' house life before. Not like this. "I am aware, Harry," he drawls, bordering on offended.

_Shit_, this could go wrong so damn fast.

"What I'm trying to say is: be careful," Harry says, trying to inject the appropriate level of truthfulness to the words he's saying. "The Dark Mark is not something you can undo — if you decide to take the mark, you'll have to live with that choice for the rest of your life, no matter how much you may come to regret it."

Harry pauses. Breathes. "I knew a man much like you," he continues, starts again, thinking about the Severus Snape of his time. A dead man. "So much so that you might've been the same person. He made the wrong choice — I don't want that for you." He closes his eyes, feels his hands closing into fists. "Do you even know who the Dark Lord is? Voldemort? Tom Marvolo Riddle? Do you? Or are you blindly following a man who promises to give you power, money, and recognition even though he sees values only in himself and what he creates?"

"Do you?" The Slytherin asks, his voice full of edges. He's sitting at the edge of the couch, almost ready to spring up and leave. "What do you know about the Dark Lord?

Well. Way, way more than he ever wanted to — that's for sure.

"A great deal more than most people," Harry informs sardonically, opening his eyes and wishing it were different. "I can tell you everything you wish to know about him._ Ask me_. I want you to make an informed decision. Although I wish I could, I cannot choose for you."

His words only serve to confuse Severus even more, it seems, because he tilts his head and a line forms in between his eyebrows. "You can— Are you ever going to tell me about your past?"

About his past. The future. Another future entirely — one that doesn't even exists anymore, thanks to Harry's efforts. Could he tell that to Severus? Did he even want to go digging through that pile of crap?

"No. I don't think so," he says after a moment of consideration. "I would only serve to haunt you." Harry pauses, searches for the right way to say the things running around in his head. "I imagine you've already come up with a scenario close enough to the truth that it might as well be it. I was born in the middle of a war — one that people insisted that I should fight at all costs."

Black eyes narrow down on him, dissecting every single word he's speaking, searching for the hidden meaning behind them, and Harry wonders just how much Severus is actually picking up. How much he's giving away. Which dirty parts of his soul he's baring despite his best intentions.

He doesn't interrupt, though, so Harry carries on speaking. "I lead the resistance. Or I tried to, at least," he says, wishing his voice didn't sound so goddamn bitter. Fuck if thinking about the war didn't still hurt like hell still, though. "My mentor was the leader for many decades before he died, and after his passing, it was up to me to end it. To finish it, once and for all."

"Finish it?" Severus repeats, arching a brow. His voice is a touch incredulous — like he kind of believes that Harry will admit that it's all a joke at any moment now.

Too bad that he's not planning on doing anything of the sort.

"Yes, Severus. Finish it," Harry confirms. "And all I can tell you is that there is no glory. There's no great feat and no heroes and no everlasting fame to be had in the middle of a war. It's horrible, and every day I wished it would be over while at the same time dreading to see the crumbles that had remained of the world that I loved."

The words start to flow from his lips, and Harry starts to go off the script, speaking the shit that has been stuck in his throat for years, lodged in his windpipe for god knows how fucking long, only waiting for a chance to come out.

"Whatever it is that you think Riddle is giving you — whatever revenge you believe this will give you — give it up," Harry says, demands, asks, begs, tells. It's everything and nothing at all. It's the words of a desperate man who's willing to do whatever to get what he wants, what he needs. "Give up on this poisonous dream before it swallows you whole. Dark magic always comes with a price, and trust me when I say that this is not a price you'll be willing to pay."

And Severus starts to look unsettled by the words, as if caught by surprise by Harry vehemence, but he also looks scornful and perhaps a bit astonished — most likely at Harry's daring.

"Don't all things have a price in life?" He asks wryly, darkly. Jaded.

So damn jaded for someone so young.

And it triggers that part of Harry's instincts that seem to want to protect Severus at all costs. "I know that it has been bad," he says, his voice going soft. "In many ways, the wizarding world still has a lot to learn when it comes to dealing with half-bloods and muggle-borns, and unfortunately, I cannot change your past. You must learn to live with it, in your own time. However, this isn't because I'm weak or because I do not wish to help you, Severus, it's 'cause there's nothing to be done. However much your father has hurt you, and no matter how badly Dumbledore's permissiveness tastes, only you can help yourself, and I promise you that the answer is not written in a dark arts book."

"You can't promise me that. You can't promise me anything," Severus protests sharply. "You talk about the Dark Lord, and you talk about Dumbledore, any yet you explain none of it. How can you know any of this?"

Harry leans forward in his chair, wishing to close the distance between them, to get close, to reach out to the person he swore to take care of.

"Riddle sells lies," it's what he ends up saying, shaking his head. Sidestepping the question, the prod. Merlin, to this day, it still boggles Harry's mind how Riddle fucked over generations of witches and wizards. "He knows they are lies, but his anger blinds him as much as it does those around him. He's a half-blood, and he hates his parentage. Hates who birthed him, and how. This is his revenge, his masterplan. Don't think for a second that he means to help anyone else but himself."

Severus looks so severe, so serious, so grave. He's clearly hanging to every word Harry is uttering, listening with the kind of attention that's almost daunting.

And he's still there. He's still hearing, still giving Harry a chance to change his mind.

"It's all just a whole bunch of lies," Harry says, digging his nails into his thighs to try to keep himself from reaching out and touching. Soothing. "It's your call, though. It will always be your choice. I will not inform Dumbledore; I will not warn the Ministry, I won't move a finger. You gotta decide for yourself, Severus."

Their eyes are locked together, and they are barely breathing, and Harry wonders if Severus is secretly a Legilimens already, but then mentally shakes his head. No, he knows better. Harry knows precisely who taught Severus Legilimency and who later taught him Occlumency — both moments are still far from arriving.

And if Harry has anything to say about it — which he insists on having — then they never arrive.

The last thing Severus needs is to have people poking into his head only to teach him how to poke at others'.

"Know this, though: The second that Tom brands you as his, you are beyond my help. I won't leave, and I won't let you got through it alone, but there won't be a thing I can do beyond that," Harry says, and the words burn in his tongue. It's the truth, after all. He can do many things, but undo Tom's mark isn't one of them. "If you choose to be his, you'll have to live with the consequences."

Finally, after a long moment of silence, Severus presses his lips together in a nervous gesture, blinking fast. "Don't we all?" He questions simply. Only three words.

Three small words, but it's enough. Harry sees the cynicism, the doubts, the fears, the dozens of unanswered questions swimming in his gorgeous eyes, and it breaks another piece of Harry's already torn up heart.

He's trying so damn hard to fix up Severus' life, to be there, to get to know him, to be a part of the Slytherin's days, but still… There's so much shit hidden underneath that are yet to come up between them, so many secrets they are both keeping from the other.

Harry cannot help but wonder if it will all come back to bite him in the arse when he least expects it.

With their combined lack of luck, it seems foolish to expect anything else.

* * *

In the end, Severus' birthday comes and goes without much fanfare, which is precisely how the Slytherin had wanted it to go, so Harry tries not to feel too bad about it, even though there's some persistent feeling — which he refuses to name — clawing at his insides demanding for more.

_It's one birthday,_ Harry reasons with his own damn mind. There will be others — many others, if he has any say in the matter. Forcing the issue now would only upset Severus on the last day of the year he should be bothered by Harry's issues.

So, yeah, the day passes as though it's just another random day of the week, with classes and meals and students and grades and the whole list of shit that happens every day at Hogwarts.

With only one exception, however. Just one. A minor one, honestly.

Curfew.

The curfew doesn't exist for Severus on that monday night. Instead, he goes to Harry's room and they spend time together, doing nothing, really. Severus reads one of the more obscure books on defence from Harry's collection, lazily sitting on the couch, and Harry answers his questions on the better ways to cast the spells. That's it.

There's no fuzz, no sentiment, no declarations, nothing. Just a soft-spoken conversation, and pages being turned, and waves of hands, and cups upon cups of hot tea.

It's closer to dawn when Severus gets up and announces he's going back to his dormitory to shower and catch a couple of hours of sleep. Harry just nods, agreeing, before all but shoving his present into the Slytherin's surprised hands, refusing to hear a word about it and waving away any attempts of demonstrations of gratitude or appreciation.

It's a bracelet. A leather and gold bracelet, handwoven into the most beautiful, delicate lattice. Small and heavy. Simple and functional. Encrusted with enough protective spells to save his life, should it come to it. Carrying enough of Harry's magic to almost have a presence of its own.

It's so significant and obvious and meaningful that Harry cannot bear to be present when Severus opens it. He doesn't want to know, to see what the reaction will be.

It comes as a surprise, then, when Severus shows up the next day in class subtly wearing it around his right wrist. His wand hand. It comes as even more of a surprise when Severus never bothers to take it off again.

* * *

"You know, you can scream if you want to," Harry finally says.

Severus stops pacing. "What?"

"Well, you've been rambling about James Potter for about half an hour, all wound up and shit, going on and on about how he threw a tantrum about his father's letter," Harry explains, shrugging. "It seems to me that the problem is not that he had a meltdown, but that you can't have one too." He gestures to the free space separating them. "Go on, then."

"I don't need you to mock me—"

"I'm doing nothing of the sort. You don't feel like you have a space to let loose — well, you're wrong. If you want to scream, and shout, and break stuff, be my guest," Harry says calmly, taking his time to enunciate the words carefully to show he's quite serious. "I'll even watch; if you'd prefer."

Severus' eyes widen and his cheek begins to turn a dark shade of red. Embarrassment pours out of him in waves, as though he cannot believe that Harry is talking so normally about it — like it should be a taboo or something.

"I. You can't possibly mean that." He frowns, protests. "I don't want to behave like a toddler."

"It seems to me that you do, though." Harry sighs when the boy scowls harder. "Honestly, Severus, this is unnecessary. I don't care if you want to be a brat for a day. You hold yourself to impossible standards — no one is in control 24/7."

"I am."

"No, you pretend you are. Very well, I'll give you that — but it's still a façade, nonetheless." Harry grins, predatory. "Why don't you give it a try? Maybe recklessness will taste sweeter than you may think."

Severus' only response is to storm out of the room, slamming the door behind him in quite a dramatic way, and Harry can only smile fondly. If Severus thinks desire wasn't etched on every line of his line before he left, then he's sadly mistaken.

They'll get there.

* * *

Without even bothering to ask for permission beforehand, Severus hops onto the countertop, letting his legs swing in the air, and Harry has to bit the inside of his cheek to keep a smile from stretching across his face. That's the exact sort of casual confidence that Severus never had with him the year before — the freedom to act as he pleased, unguarded.

Eager not to draw attention to it, Harry asks, "How are your classes?"

"Boring," Severus admits with a shrug. "Time-consuming, yeah, but boring still. It would've been easier if I hadn't decided to take eleven N.E.W.T.S. next year."

"I still don't get why you chose to do so many. Honestly, you could have picked the five you'll need for your mastery and spent the rest of the time dedicating yourself to independent studies." _With me_, Harry doesn't add, but it's heavily implied.

A dark look crosses the boy's faces quickly. "You know why," he says, avoiding Harry's eyes.

"You have nothing to prove, Severus. Absolutely nothing."

"I'll always have everything to prove to the students here."

_They don't matter_, Harry wants to say. _I think you're amazing, incredible_.

But he understands how deeply Severus was — is still — affected by the low opinions his peers have of him, especially when it comes to the Marauders. He needs to prove that he's better than them, smarter in every sense, and Harry cannot resent him for it. If anything, he's sad that Severus can't see how much he's losing by giving others such amount of power over him when it's unnecessary.

"Okay. And how about Potions? Better than last week?"

"This castle is filled with imbeciles," Severus sort of mumbles under his breath, still upset by the disaster that his Potions lesson had been.

Harry smiles, indulgent. "You're a prodigy, Severus. It would be unfair to judge others by your personal standard."

"A prodigy," he repeats, testing the word, wondering. He raises his head and meets Harry's eyes. "Were _you_ a prodigy at my age?"

"Me?" Harry asks, mentally considering the question. "I suppose some might've said that, yes. Probably more of a weird combination of dumb luck and extreme circumstances, in my case."

Severus raises a brow. "Should I ask?"

Harry shakes his head. "Let's just say I have a tendency to draw crazy people in," he explains, knowing it's not much of an explanation at all.

"I'm undecided whether to be insulted or concerned," Severus says, his voice heavy with sarcasm and Harry cannot help himself.

He reaches forward to ruffle the Slytherin's hair, ignoring the indignant noise of protest and the hex building in those severe lips. "You're too young to be so cranky, Severus," he jokes, chuckling at the way he's being glared at. "Anyway, you don't give yourself enough credit. Potions is an incredibly tough field — to navigate through it at such a young age… it's impressive, to say the least."

"Other students brew the same potions as I do." It's what he says, scooching back to step out of Harry immediate reach.

"Don't be obtuse, I know you better than that. Yes, they may be in the same class as you, trying to create the same potions, but let's not pretend they know the subject as you do. To understand the theory behind the creation process of it is an impressive feat, no doubt."

"Or perhaps I'm simply less inclined to delusions of grandeur than Gryffindors."

"Oh, don't start with that. Slytherins basically created the concept of personal delusion. Gryffindors may believe in luck and facing your problems head-first, but Slytherins?" Harry says, rolling his eyes. Even after all these years he still can't quite figure out the headspace of most Slytherin students. "They are too busy believing they know more than enough to fix whatever it is on their own."

Clearly, it's not the right thing to say. Severus loses some of his good mood and his dark eyes go even darker with barely concealed anger.

"Slytherins know that, in the end, everyone is out for themselves," he spats out, as though Harry should've known that. And maybe he should have. "It's survival."

And, yeah, Harry should've known that.

* * *

It's past midnight when he receives a summon to the Headmaster's office. Instantly, Harry's on his feet, grabbing a handful of floo powder and jumping into the fireplace. At this hour, nothing good could be waiting for him on the other side.

What Harry hadn't expected, however, was to see Dumbledore watching as Minerva and Slughorn scream at with each other, gesturing wildly to the two bloodied boys sitting on the cold floor, who were too busy glaring daggers at each other to be bothered.

Severus and James Potter.

Of course.

For fuck's sake.

Harry clears his throat loudly, and suddenly everyone has their eyes on him.

Harry stares at Severus. His broken nose, his torn robes. Fire ignites. "Get up," he orders through gritted teeth. He's trying to get a hold of his temper, but it's not working.

"Harry, I," Severus starts, obviously embarrassed to be caught in such a position, but Harry is past the point of listening.

"Don't. We'll discuss this later." Harry rubs the bridge of his nose. "I won't ask again. Get up, both of you."

"Harry, my boy," Dumbledore greets, far too happily in face of the situation. "Thank you for responding to my call so fast. Lemon drops?"

"It's almost one in the morning, Albus," Harry deadpans, ignoring the candy. Albus' eyes twinkle in response, amused. Harry doesn't have time for pleasantries, though. "What happened here?"

"A rather ugly fight, I'm afraid. Both boys were caught past curfew by Minerva near the entrance to the Slytherin's common room," Albus explains, gesturing to the two Professors by his side.

"Fighting!" Minerva adds, pursing her lips. "Screaming at each other, too. Probably waking up all the portraits in the castle with their actions, too."

"As Albus pointed out, dear Minerva," Slughorn argues. "They were caught near the Slytherin common rooms. What could a Gryffindor student be doing in dungeons at such time?"

"Indeed," Harry drawls, looking at the boys, scanning their wounds. How he wants to wipe Severus' face clean of all that mess. "And my presence is required for what reason? I imagine those two have a somewhat... extensive track-record of breaking school rules?"

Albus — the insufferable fool — has the gall to give him a small smile. "I thought a neutral third party might prove to be helpful in this situation," he explains, like a fucking asshole. As though he doesn't know that Harry is anything but completely biased. "As you've pointed out, Mr. Potter and Mr. Snape have an extensive history of transgressions."

Harry draws a deep breath and promises to himself that he will not, under any circumstances, lose it in the Headmaster's office.

"Very well," he says, turning to face Severus. Harry sits down on a random chair and beckons the boy with his fingers. "You, come here," he orders, patting the chair beside him and waiting until Severus wordlessly sits down on it before turning to James. "You. Speak. What were you doing in the dungeons?"

Not waiting for him to comply, or even bothering to face the kid, Harry begins to examine Severus' face, wordlessly vanishing the blood and pressing around his nose the check the wound.

It's definitely broken, but it's a clean break — easy to fix. A mild episkey and the bone snaps back into place.

Severus hisses in pain, and Harry frowns.

"That's what you get for getting in the middle of a fistfight," he admonishes with a pointed look. "You know better than that. Did you not have your wand on you?"

"I did," Severus whispers, lowering his eyes. He looks tense, frustrated.

"Is there a reason why you failed to use it?"

A pause.

"I—"

"He bloody well tried!" James interrupts, deciding to speak his mind. "Would've hexed me if I—" The boy seems to catch himself mid-sentence, snapping his mouth closed and his eyes going wide and frightened.

Harry goes still. "What?"

"Nothing, Sir."

But there's a thought nagging at the back of Harry's mind, and he can't let it go. "Severus, where's your wand?" He asks, demands.

"Potter has it." Three words. Only three words and Harry loses his senses.

"_James Charles Potter_!" Minerva calls, outraged.

Without a pause, Harry summons it from inside James' robes, watching as the familiar wand flies into his waiting hand. His fingers curl around the wood, gripping it a lot harder than he ought to.

Harry hands it over to its owner and stands. Severus mirrors his movements, opening his mouth as though he wants to say something.

The room starts to feel small, restrictive. Magic runs through Harry's veins.

Hot. Burning.

Harry steps in front of James. "Empty your pockets," he orders.

"Maybe that's—" Slughorn tries, but Harry ignores it. Ignores them all.

There must be an ouch of sense left in the boy because James does as he's ordered, handing over a lot of shit, which Harry casts aside without another look, holding only the empty piece of folded parchment in his hands.

He waves his hand over it, examines it, but it's for show. He knows precisely what he has in his hands.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," he says, spits, watching as the map comes to life.

"You— you. That is. Wh—how?" James gapes.

"Mr. Potter, I'm your Professor," Harry grits, barely keeping it together. Merlin, this stupid kid. Harry wants to skin him. "A former Auror and a Curse Breaker. I would like to believe any magic performed by a group of sixth-years is not beyond me. Wouldn't you agree?"

James nods, in a trance. "Of course," he agrees.

"Stealing another wizard wand is a grave offence, Mr. Potter," Harry tells him, his voice going low and threatening. Absolutely inappropriate, given the circumstances. "Be thankful I'm not the Headmaster of this school, or you would be expelled for your transgressions."

And he would, too. Enough is enough.

"Harry…" Severus tries from behind him, touching his back.

Harry flinches. He flinches, and there's no way anyone missed it. _God_, what a fucking night. Harry is so messed up, so screwed up beyond belief. How else could he stand there, barely restraining himself, wishing he could hex his own student to an inch of his life for daring to harm Severus. For thinking he can bully him without consequences.

It's ridiculous.

Harry should have more control than this. Needs to get a grip before he becomes a threat to others.

"Albus," Harry says, shaking his head, facing the Headmaster and showing all of his displeasure, his disapproval. He throws the map on the man's table, open for them all to see what it is. "This is unacceptable. Your favouritism towards Gryffindors needs to have a limit. You can't keep telling yourself that this is some sort of schoolboy rivalry any longer."

With that, Harry turns and leaves.

Opens the door and gets the hell out of that room, ignoring everyone inside it. Ignoring Severus' eyes burning holes into his back. Ignoring how non-professional his behaviour was. Ignoring how he didn't help, at all, in the end. Ignoring everything.

Harry focuses on getting control of his magic. He breathes and nearly runs to his bedroom and drinks whiskey straight from the fucking bottle, swallowing the liquid as though it is a medicine, a cure.

It takes him a while to notice his fingers are stained with Severus' blood.

It takes him even longer to clean it.

A lot longer.

* * *

Harry tilts his head to catch the title of Severus' tome.

_Moste Potente Potions_.

Nice. Seems like a light, family book.

"A little recreational reading before bed?" Harry teases, sitting on his usual chair.

Severus hums without taking his eyes off the book, clearly too engrossed in whatever it is that he's reading to pay attention to anything else. Harry smiles, charmed despite his better senses by the hyper-focus — it reminds him so damn much of Hermione. Merlin, he misses her like crazy.

Harry tenses. "It's getting late, Severus. Shouldn't you be getting to bed?"

Severus blinks, raising his head slowly. It's so endearing, the way he seems to almost come back to his body, as though he had been too busy floating away in Potions ingredients and formulas. "I. What time is it?"

"Ten minutes to your curfew," Harry informs, relaxing once more. It wouldn't do to get lost in the past, anyway.

"Already?" Severus complains, eyes quickly shifting back and forth between the door and the open book in his lap. "That can't be. I just sat here a few minutes ago."

"Pretty sure it's been a couple of hours, at least."

Severus pauses, then turns his eyes to Harry, an almost guilty expression on his face. "I just— I gotta— can I just finish the chapter? It's only—" He checks, quickly counting the pages. The many pages left. "—hmm… thirty-three pages?"

Harry should at least try to be a responsible adult, right?

"Severus…" He says, trying to come up with a good argument to convince Severus to go to bed but nothing comes to mind.

Honestly, Harry doesn't give a shit. Severus is not a child anymore — he's responsible and a fucking amazing student. There's no reason for him to have a curfew in the first place. Surely he's old enough to take care of his own bedtime without the Hogwarts staff to reinforce it.

However, Harry's still part of the said staff and, as such, should at least try to uphold the rules of the institution, right? Never mind his personal opinions on the subject.

Only Severus knows Harry by then, and he easily smells weakness in the air.

"If I go now, I'll only pick another book to read in my bed," he reasons with an eager expression. "You said I can't take this one to my dormitory. I'm being considerate of your rules."

Harry can't help but be amused. "Is that so? How thoughtful of you."

He nods in agreement, the little shit. "I really am."

"I should send you to bed," Harry says, but it's as good as giving up and they both know it.

"I can't see why."

"Oh, don't get clever with me, Severus."

"I have no idea what you mean."

By then, they are both smiling at each other, knowing that the argument is over and Severus has won. It was the most probable result from the start, anyway.

"Whatever," Harry mumbles, summoning a glass of whiskey and taking a sip. "Today's youth just doesn't respect their elders anymore. It's quite sad, really. No respect whatsoever. I fear for our world. Truly."

"Since when did you become a bitter, old man?" Severus questions, a brow raised. He's pressing his lips together to repress a smile, though, so Harry forgives the insult.

"Since you stopped even pretending to respect me, Severus," Harry faux complains, groaning dramatically. "When was that, anyway? I'm pretty sure you used to look at me with admiration, with longing, with awe, with—"

"Please stop sharing your delusions out loud, Harry," Severus cuts, voice dry as the desert. His mouth is twitching, barely staying down. "It's an embarrassment for all of us."

"You see?" Harry groans, pointing at him. "_There_, right there! You used to be so sweet. Tsk, tsk. I guess hormones corrupt even the sweetest of kids."

Finally, Severus laughs. His eyes sparkle with mirth and he laughs — a full belly laugh, throwing his head back and exposing his pale neck. His flawless, unmarked neck.

"I do believe I'm far too old to blame hormones changes for my actions," he says once he's calmed down a bit. "I'm afraid I must take full responsibility for any loss of— what was it that you said? Awe?"

"You truly are a horrible student," Harry proclaims, shaking his head.

Severus grins teasingly. "_Me_? I've been told I'm a delight."

"Lies. Lies, I say!" Harry declares, getting up from his chair. "I'm going to take a shower, demon spawn. Do refrain from settling my room on fire during my absence."

"I make no promises," Severus teases, eyes already drifting back to his book. He's still smiling, though, clearly entertained by the whole exchange and Harry cannot help but feel a bounce to his step as he heads to the shower.

God, he's in so deep already.

Slipping, that's what he is. Slipping so goddamn fast for Severus.

.

Hours later, Harry finds Severus fast asleep, snoring softly on his couch, and somehow still holding that damn book in his hands. He looks so relaxed and peaceful — vulnerable in a way he never permits himself to be while awake. It's a good look on him, Harry decides.

As before, there's a proper response to the situation — one which Harry should do. As before, he promptly ignores it. Instead, he grabs a quilt and tucks Severus, gently prying the book from his hands and setting it on the table behind him. Then, for good measure, Harry casts about seven protective barrier spells around Severus' sleeping form, watching as his magic encases him in a vigilant bubble.

After making sure that nothing will disturb him, Harry kills all the lights and goes to bed. He's done enough for one day.

* * *

"This is horrible," Severus says, picking up the mug Harry's using and staring at it with undisguised disgust. It's chipped and quite the awful shade of yellow, to be honest. "Did someone sell you this? Honestly, Harry, I hope you didn't spend much money on this truly horrendous piece of crap. "

"I didn't. And for the record, I don't measure the value of the things that I own by how much they cost," Harry corrects. "This was given to me by a dear friend, who is no longer around; therefore, it's priceless — its value is immeasurable to me, regardless of its price."

"_Oh_." Severus pauses, considering, putting the mug down. "So if I gave you…"

"You don't have to give me anything. Trust me; you give me plenty with your presence alone." Harry places his hand on Severus' shoulder, giving a light squeeze. "But yeah, of course, if you truly desire to give me something, then I'll treasure it. Honestly Severus, how vain do you believe me to be?"

"In my experience, men who were born into money place little value in mundane things. In this case, though It was not a judge of your character alone; I simply believed you to be above such things as trinkets."

"Above such—You know what? Perhaps it _is_ time that we had this conversation. I can no longer postpone it, no matter how much I want to. Please, sit down." Harry watches the Slytherin obey, sitting down on the chair behind him. "Severus, would you like to listen to my story?"

His brows raise in protest. "Do not feel obliged—"

"I feel nothing of the sort. I asked you a question; please, answer it."

"If you'd like to tell me, I'd like nothing more than to hear it." And he sounds sincere.

"Very well," Harry starts, sitting down as well and getting comfortable in his place. "Let me start by disbanding this notion you have that I was born into money. I was_ not_. I was raised by muggles who hated me and, more importantly, hated magic, above all else. My parents died when I was very young — a baby still. Their will was disregarded, and I was sent to live with my mother's sister — left at her doorstep in the middle of the night, with little more than the clothes on my body and a short letter explaining who I was. I very much lived as a muggle for the first eleven years of my life, without a single clue as to who I was and what powers I had inside of me."

"As a muggle?" Severus questions, incredulous. "Did you not have bouts of accidental magic?"

"I did, of course, as do most children, but it's easy to sweep things under the rug when it's convenient, and at the time I was hardly at a place where I could speak to anyone about it. I ignored it; my uncle and aunt hated it, punished me whenever it happened, even though I had no idea why anything had happened in the first place."

There's a knowing glint in Severus' eyes even as he asks: "Punished you?"

"You don't need to tiptoe around it; I had time to make peace with my past. Yeah, they were abusive. They never hit me, if that's what you're asking, but they were plenty abusive verbally. They had their means to make me suffer for being what I was, what I am."

"Is that why you— do you know— my father…"

"I do know about your father. You know that. In a way, we also share that. What I do know, however, is very little, I imagine, compared to what you suffer at home. Why didn't you tell someone?"

Severus stares, slightly judgmental. "Did you?"

"No. I didn't have anyone to tell, though. I didn't have friends or other adults I felt connected to, and everyone else around me seemed aware of what was happening and content to let it carry on. In many ways, I thought that was how it should be. I hope you know differently."

"I'm already so different." Severus sighs, as if frustrated by Harry's inability to understand that without needing words. "A half-blood, a Slytherin, without a galleon to my name. It seemed shameful to purposely add another taint to my already black background."

"So you'd rather suffer in silence?"

"_Yes_," Severus answers, not bothering to pretend otherwise.

"There's nothing wrong with being a half-blood, or a Slytherin, or poor. They're just titles, Severus. I have it on good opinion that when stripped bare, none of that matters a single bit. We're all just trying to make the best we can with what we have."

"That's the Gryffindor idealism speaking for you," he chides gently. "No one can escape the grips of society."

"Your life is not a plaything. You're not a piece in a chessboard, and the things that happen in your life are not meaningless tragedies to be left forgotten. Do not diminish yourself by trying to become someone else. Someone who's seemingly more suited to play the high society game. You're worth more than that."

"For Circe's sake, don't pretend to delude yourself or me with this pointless pep talk," Severus says, exasperation sitting heavy on his tongue, and it looks like he's keeping himself from rolling his eyes by mere force of will. "I do not require a charming prince to save me from my dark, tragic past. I'll deal with my father exactly as I have dealt with all my other problems."

"By ignoring them?"

"By thriving despite them," The Slytherin corrects. "I shall not allow my father to dictate how my life will be like, and that will have to suffice as a big enough, metaphorical flip off."

"And yet. You shouldn't have to put up with it; you should have space and resources to thrive in peace, not like this."

"As I said, things are more complicated than that."

"I'm aware." Harry pauses, trying to keeping the words from leaving his lips, knowing it isn't a good idea to offer something like that all of a sudden, but it's useless. He wants it. Harry can barely pretend to think about it before opening his mouth and pleading. "Stay with me."

Severus gapes. "Have you lost the last of your grip on your sanity?"

"Do I strike you as an insane person? _Wait_, don't answer that. What I mean is: you don't have to go back to them, if you don't wish to. I could sign the papers and list myself as your magical guardian, and thus you'd be permitted to stay right here, where you are."

"Are you suggesting that I disappear and leave my father?"

"_Yes_. Basically, yes. I want to remove you from that environment as soon as possible." Harry stares, serious as he can be. "The school year will be over pretty soon, and the last thing I want is for you to spend the whole summer alone with your father."

Severus looks unbalanced, shaken by the blunt words. "I need to think about it," he says weakly. "I can't simply—"

"Of course," Harry agrees. "Take as long as you wish, Severus. It's your life — your decision. Just… I hope you know I'll make anything happen for you to be safe. Anything."

There's a long pause after his words, and after a few minutes, Harry begins to wonder if he had finally crossed a line with Severus. Danced over a limit the Slytherin had without knowing about it. However, before he can do something foolish like rushing to take the words back, Severus speaks.

"It's not my safety I'm concerned about," he says gravely, a look of old pain slowly crawling over his face.

And Harry is quite ashamed to admit, but it takes him much too long to understand what Severus meant with those words.

* * *

Harry stares at his reflexion in the mirror, studying his figure with the kind of intense perusal he usually avoids at all costs, for fear of what he might stumble upon hidden in the edges of his battle-hardened body. Now, however, Harry purposely goes against this ingrained instinct and takes his time going over every patch of skin, every bulge of muscle, every protuberant bone and harsh line.

Most of all, though, Harry's eyes linger on numerous the scars scattered all along his body, painting a brutal trail of his near-death experiences. It's useless to deny; they mar Harry's figure.

Harry had never considered himself to be a cute child, an attractive teenager, or even a handsome man. With his shaggy, unruly hair, his pasty white skin, the dark trails of black hair running down his limbs shining in deep contrast, the stretch marks on his arms and back from his Aurors days where he had been forced to build layers and layers of muscle nearly overnight… none of it fit together to form a cohesive picture, something delightful to stare at.

No, Harry knows just how average he already would've been had his life been ordinary since birth. However, what seals the deal, knocks the last nail in the coffin, is the collection of scars he has — so spread out across his body, indeed, that not even the most conservative of robes stand a chance at keeping them all out of sight.

By now, Harry's used to wearing a glamour 24/7, and it's not something he's ashamed of, necessarily. Harry used his body as a tool for many years — it was bound to come with a steep price. Which begs the question: why is he now, at twenty-eight, as a fully grown fucking adult, frowning at his image in the mirror, like an insecure teenage girl?

It's not like Severus Snape is any more of a charming prince at seventeen than he had been at thirty-eight, and he hardly seems the type to search for a pretty thing to hang upon his arm, so why, goddammit, is Harry wasting his time in this ridiculous self-flagellating exercise?

Maybe, his treacherous mind whispers, it's because you are an old, war-veteran, with more triggers than happy memories, who cannot give Severus a third of what any other student his age can.

He may not be rich, well-kept, or handsome in his own right, but it's clear to anyone who might pay attention that Severus is a prodigy, a Potions genius who only has to choose the right path to lead whichever life he pleases.

"_Fuck!_" Harry curses, punching the mirror in a fit of anger with all his strength. The glass shatters beneath his hand, cascading down to the floor in big, sharp chunks, and sliding everywhere.

Tiny pieces are embedded in his hand, sunken deep into his knuckles and fingers, and pain is jolting up his arm, and the mirror is broken, and blood is dripping into the floor, and, _shit_, his magic is spinning out of control. It responds to his pain, his confusion, his pain, and spreads all over his body, sending deep, blue sparks everywhere, sizzling, burning.

"Get your shit together, Potter," Harry murmurs under his breath in a tone that sounds suspiciously like a scorning drawl from a person who doesn't even exist anymore. The books fall from their selves, and his teacup is sent flying across the room where it smashes against the opposite wall, leaving a trail of cold tea along its trajectory. "You're losing it."

And he is. Harry's losing it.

* * *

Harry grabs the bottle of whisky by the neck and eyes it, watching the amber liquid moving inside, wondering if he should pretend he wasn't about to drink all of it. If maybe he should grab a glass and pour himself a reasonable amount, perhaps even put a couple of ice cubes with the fucking liquor.

He should, Harry thinks distantly, already aware that he won't do any of that. He should, though. At least to try to preserve a lick of his dignity — if such a thing even existed anymore.

It's a friday night.

Harry is a twenty-eight-year-old man, sitting alone in his living room, black staring at a bottle of booze, mentally arguing with himself about whether he should or not bother to keep pretences of the shreds of his sanity. And it's a friday night, on top of that.

_Merlin_. Harry hates fridays, and weekends, and holidays, and any day, really, where people pretended to be happier, more resolved, more involved than normal. Hates the days where his loneliness appears more sharply in the mirror of his bathroom.

Fuck it, Harry decides, twisting the cap of the bottle off and swallowing as much as he can at once, barely tasting anything past the bitter taste of frustration sitting on his tongue. He'll drink this whole damn thing, and maybe he'll open a new bottle as well and toss that down too. It doesn't matter.

He's in the past. Harry' teaching at Hogwarts. Goddammit, he's a fucking teacher. He's teaching his own father, his mother, his godfather, every single person who will matter to baby Harry Potter in a few years. And, somehow, he's supposed to do that without showing a flick of emotions towards them, without showing his pile of regrets and sorrows and questions he has, all weighing down on his chest.

Harry needs to be Harry Peverell — someone who doesn't give a shit about Potters, and Blacks, and Lupins, and Evans, and Pettigrew. God, Harry needs to keep his wits together and not slip and kill the damn rat one day as he walks across the castle.

It doesn't sound feasible. It doesn't seem possible — not when he desperately wants to scream at his father, and hug his mother, and smile at Remus, and fall to his knees in front of Sirius and beg for forgiveness, for redemption, for love, for a new chance, for the opportunity to get to know the man who once represented everything Harry had ever wanted in relation to family.

So Harry drinks. He throws his head back, and swallows past the lump in his throat, and hopes to Merlin that the weekend passes in a fast sort of haze so he can go back to his classroom and do what he does. He holds the heavy bottle, and shakes the expensive liquid, and fills his mouth until it overflows. Until there's whisky trailing down his chin, his neck, his chest.

It's friday night, and Harry's alone.

It's a fucking friday night and Severus doesn't bother to visit Harry, to show up for a quick talk, to stroll inside to steal a book, to throw the door open and pry the bottle from Harry's cold fingers.

No, of course not. That would be ridiculous, 'cause Harry is twenty-eight, and he's a teacher, an adult, a former Auror, for Christ's sake, and he's the one who's supposed to have his shit figured out.

Not a troubled teenager.

Not Severus Snape.

Harry smiles bitterly at the carpet. That's right, he thinks. That's the reason he travelled back into the past in the first place, wasn't it? Because people told him that he was meant to be a symbol, a hero, a leader, a vague mould for society to fill up with whatever served them, and he isn't. He never was.

Harry is only a fucked-up mess. Christ, he's just a man. Just… one man.

A man who's far too busy drinking his liquor to chase after the student he's falling in love with.

* * *

**Author's Note: *_grins_* Progress? Yes?**

**Gosh, I'm so excited for the next chapter! They are such fluffy balls of confusion and unresolved tension. I love it! lol.**

**Anyway, I know that some of you guys think that this is progressing rather quickly, so I wanted to address the issue. There are two major points to think about:**

**1) Time is passing in between each scene. I'm not showing y'all every interaction Harry has in the past **—** just the ones I believe are more relevant to the plot and the construction of the relationship between Severus and Harry. So, yeah, as you may have noticed in this chapter, the sixth year is nearly over and summer is about to begin.**

**2) As I explained in the first chapter, this story was my Camp Nano project this year, and I wrote the vast majority of it in a single month. Yes, I have continued to add stuff afterwards and it has turned out to be much longer than what I had previously intended, but, nevertheless, it is still a somewhat 'short' fic. I have divided it into six chapters, and I still plan to end it there. I never meant for this story to be a huge, in-depth piece showing all their lives.**

**Anyways, this is just to clarify a few things. I have been considering writing an epilogue **—** something soft and peaceful to wrap this entire thing together. Maybe 'cause I want to, maybe 'cause I still think Severus deserved his own happy life after the war. So, yeah, this is where I'm at, with this fic.**

**That's it. I'm done with my rant, for now. lol.**

**Please, don't forget to leave a comment telling me what you thought of this chapter and everything that happened. I love hearing opinions about the stuff I write. Love you guys. Xoxo.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Guess who isn't dead? Yep, me.**

* * *

You must speak to it till your voice

catches the thread of all sorrows

and you see the size of the cloth.

_— Kindness (part 5)_

_by Naomi Shihab Nye_

* * *

"You should go. You don't wanna be caught out after curfew."

Severus studies him. Slowly. So, so slowly. "You _could_ write me a pass."

"I could," Harry agrees, saying nothing more. It's late, and they're alone, and he wants to see how far Severus will go.

Severus pauses, obviously waiting for Harry to either offer to write one or to reject the idea entirely, but when neither happens, black eyes narrow in concentration. It's clear that Severus has read the mirth and curiosity dancing in Harry's own eyes.

"Will you?" He asks tentatively, tilting his head ever so slightly.

That's not what Harry wants, though.

"I don't know. Should I?" He teases, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

It's a mistake. The whole thing is a mistake because Harry has no idea where he's stepping or who he's dealing with. In his mind, it is but a harmless joke, teasing banter, a curiosity he wants to sate, but Slytherins are calculating and when they play, they play to win. Unlike Gryffindors, they have no trouble sidestepping their pride to get what they want — if it's to obtain a desirable goal, they can get filthy-dirt without a single blink.

And Severus Snape is a Slytherin through and through.

Seventeen he may be, but he's also much smarter than Harry and less afraid to use his powers for evil.

Severus moves. He nearly floats until he's entering Harry's personal space and their eyes are locked and their magic meets all around them and the air feels saturated with more than oxygen and silence. Harry shivers before he can control it, his arms falling to his side.

Wicked eyes hold his captive.

Harry regrets everything.

"Harry," Severus purrs — fucking_ purrs_ — dropping his voice to something close to whisper. Intimate. Private. "Do you know what time is it?"

Time? Harry is quickly losing track of where he is, nevermind the time. He shakes his head, feeling his eyes drying — isn't he blinking? Why isn't he blinking?

"It's late," Severus informs, breathing the words into Harry's face. "Way past my curfew, I'm afraid. If another member of the staff catches me wandering around so late, I'll have to have to serve detention. Which would be unfortunate."

Harry wants to kiss him. To grab Severus' face in between his hands and smash their lips together and kiss him until they both run out of breath and are left panting, gasping for more. At the same time, he needs Severus to keep going. To speak. To keep speaking. To never shut up.

That voice — so close, so low, so fucking deep. Harry thinks he could come from the sound of it alone. Without a single touch. Like a fucking teenager.

"Do you know why?" Severus keeps going, correctly assuming that Harry is in no condition to participate in the conversation at that point. "If I have to serve detention somewhere else, I won't be able to be here. It _would_ be a shame if I couldn't come here tomorrow because of something like detention, wouldn't it? To practice, to read. To see you."

At the last words, Harry freezes. God, he's so gone on this man, it's not even funny anymore. Like a complete idiot, he's pathetically wrapped around Severus' little finger. He doesn't want anyone else disturbing their time together — their private hours, at night, when they hang on Harry's private rooms and do their thing without others to interrupt.

It turns out, Harry is protective of their time together. Considers it an almost sacred part of his days, he realizes. And therefore, he's reluctant to allow anyone to disturb it, to keep Severus from joining him for whatever reason — even if it is for detention. Even if it is for anything.

Harry wants to hoard Severus all to himself.

Selfishly.

_Greedily_.

Suddenly, a pass doesn't seem enough. It doesn't guarantee anything.

"I'll take you," he says, informs. His voice is raspy. "I'll walk you to your rooms."

Severus blinks, taken back by the offer, by Harry's voice, by the change in the atmosphere. He loses his seductive air and seems confused, instead. Almost hesitant.

"You don't need to," he assures, but he's still so damn close, their chests nearly touching, and Harry is about to do something foolish, so he interrupts.

"I know. I want to. It's better than a piece of paper, anyway," Harry admits. And he can't resist the urge to reach and tuck a strand of Severus' hair behind his ear, allowing the touch to linger for a lot longer than was proper between a teacher and a student. "Let me walk you back, alright?"

This time, Severus is who seems stunned still by the situation. It takes him a minute to nod in agreement, and he only starts to walk when Harry places a hand on his back and leads him outside.

For the rest of the way, they are both silent. Considering. Processing.

Trying to resist the urge to do it again.

To touch. To blur the lines.

* * *

"—and now I'm testing to see if crushed knotgrass, instead of diced, works better with the other ingredients. Given its properties and the high temperature necessary to blend the—"

It's a quiet wednesday evening — and as a rule, nothing significant happens on a wednesday. All the classes are done for the day, and the curfew is fasting approaching, which means that the hallways are getting progressively deserted and the only sounds coming from the window are the usual noises from the forest.

As soon as his office hours ended, Harry had retreated to his private rooms, having no wish to prolong his availability to the brats roaming inside the school. In his mind, he had envisioned ending his day with a hefty dose of whiskey by the fireplace, maybe with a good book from the Potter's vaults in his hands to peruse for new spells to teach the older students. That had been the plan — nothing terribly exciting, true, but then, like he's said, wednesday weren't meant to be anything other than a slow day to bridge the beginning of the week and the end of it.

His plans, however, never amounted to anything because, not ten minutes after Harry arrived at his rooms, Severus strolled inside, brimming with poorly contained enthusiasm and stomped all over Harry's calm wednesday.

As a matter of fact, without even a word of greeting, Severus starts to go on about the potion he's creating and how difficult certain ingredients are to mix together and how he's trying to chop instead of dice, or crush instead of mincing — honestly, Harry lost track of the whole thing about twelve minutes ago, and it's now simply relaxing in his chair, listening to the young man go on and on about his tests.

Unsurprisingly, this is so much better than whatever stupid plans Harry had thought to waste his time on. Even though he doesn't have a clue about what's being discussed or how to offer a suggestion to help him, Harry could hear the words being spoken, could watch as Severus paces back and forth in front of the bookcase, gesturing with his hand with ardour about his passion, and Harry feels something inside him melting at the sight.

Merlin, hadn't that been the exact reason why he came back, why he travelled back in time? This — the chance to give Severus a life beyond being a spy, a sacrifice, a pawn in Dumbledore's fucked up chess game?

Somehow, it all feels justified right in this moment, on a wednesday night, with Severus safe and sound and healthy and so damn excited, pacing across Harry's rooms as though they are his own, taking Harry's attention for granted, like he knows he'll have it for as long as he pleases — which he will. He does.

The train of emotions takes Harry by surprise, stealing his breath out of nowhere, which is probably why it takes him a while to realize that Severus had gone quiet. Blinking, Harry takes in the scene in front of him. Lost in his thoughts, he had completely missed the moment where Severus had stopped talking and was, instead, standing still in the middle of the room, eyes narrowed in slits.

"I. I'm—forgive me," Harry mumbles, shaking his head to get rid of the fog in his mind. The last thing he wants is for the Slytherin to get offended by his lack of response. "I got lost for a minute here."

"I noticed," Severus says, and he doesn't sound offended at all. He sounds confused and a touch... pleased?

"Please, carry on. I'm sorry I zoned out on you — I want to hear all about your tests."

"I'm sure," he agrees, not without a hint of sarcasm. Then, he smiles — a small thing, barely more than a tug at the corner of his lips. "Are you aware that you are looking at me as though I'm Merlin's second coming?"

Silence holds. Harry blinks.

"Well. I. Does it bother you?"

"Don't be absurd."

"I happen to think— Severus, you must know how I feel, by now. I'd like to believe I'm not that transparent, but I do know better than to pretend I can hide anything from you for that long."

"It's good to see that your self-awareness is in working order. It would be idiotic to think you are anything but the most Gryffindor, wear-my-heart-on-my-sleeve, obvious person to grace Hogwarts halls."

"Please, don't hold back on my account or anything."

"I won't."

Harry laughs. "Good God. You're something else." He pauses. "I trust you would let me know if you were uncomforta—"

Severus rolls his eyes. "Do shut up, Harry."

"Okay, okay."

* * *

"C'mere," Harry calls, moving until they are standing face to face in his living room. "There's something I want to show you. The fact that you are creating your own spells at seventeen is very impressive — phenomenal, to be honest. You are phenomenal. But, I want you to know that this is serious. Weaving magic, the whole art of spell crafting, is not something to be taken lightly. I don't want you to get lost in the process or you may end up creating something that you'll regret."

Severus watches, curious. "Do tell."

"Magic, well, look, we are made of magic, it's embedded into every pore of your body. Look. Watch. Observe. This is important, but we must start at the beginning. You're in a school, and although Hogwarts is great, you are only learning the very basic here. And to craft your own spells you'll need to go much deeper than that."

"In a way, what your teachers don't want you to know is that magic allows you infinite possibilities. The charms and spells you learn here are but a small foundation upon which you may keep building for the rest of your life." Harry smiles at him. "As a Potions fanatic, surely you've realized that in here you're only grazing the surface of what's possible? With hexes and spells is the same thing; you're being taught a general base — things everyone should be able to cast regardless of their magical aptitude."

"Unfortunately, with being as gifted as you are, this regress to the middle leaves much to be desired. I can teach you whatever else you want to learn, and I'll show you how best to work on the arithmancy necessary to create the spells. With one condition. You let me show you true magic. Real, pure, untempered core magic."

"I believe it's important that you see it, that you know how it feels," Harry says. "The way it _should_ feel."

"Please don't start preaching about the services of Light magic to me," Severus says, rolling his eyes. He's clearly not impressed.

"I'm not a defender of separating magic into Light and Dark, as though one can draw a precise line and all spells will necessarily fall to either one side or the other. I do, however, understand the need to steer clear of some sorts of magic, and it's exactly _that_ kind that I want you to _not_ dabble with."

"Dark magic always came more easily — naturally, I suppose — to me than Light magic." Severus presses his lips tightly together. "I suppose you'll tell me all about the law and—"

"I want you to know pure, core magic because I want you to know the opposite. Right now, yours is pure. That's what I'm going to do — I'm gonna teach you to feel it, to see, to access your core as easily as you want."

Severus' expression changes and he stiffens. "Let's not pretend you don't know the sort of curses I've cast already. If there was a chance for my soul, my core, then it has slipped past me a long time ago."

"You're wrong. You'll see. I want to show you mine. So you'll see the difference." Harry swallows. "Mine is different, Severus. Tainted, I guess you could say."

Severus shakes his head. "You cannot mean that. I feel nothing wrong with your magic, and I've seen you cast wandlessly _and_ wordlessly."

"Once you've dipped your fingers into certain kinds of magic, you can't undo that. There's no cleaning ritual, no spiritual rising, nothing. And I've dipped my fingers, sunk my whole arm and torso in it, bathed and rolled around and tried to come out clean on the other side. As such, fate laughed at me. Spat on my face and laughed." Harry shrugs, shaking his head lightly. Feeling something close to embarrassment for his own old foolishness. "I fought a war. That leaves a mark, no matter what became of my life afterwards. And it's not about Dark magic, okay? Light magic messed me up just as much. It's about intent, purpose — about what kind of energy you're drawing from when you cast whatever spell you're casting.

Harry exhales deeply. "If it feels wrong, if it's demanding a piece of your goddamn soul, if it comes from a place of hatred and pain, then give up. Don't. Just... don't," he says. "Even if it doesn't seem as though the price is too high at the time... trust me, it is."

"Have you considered that perhaps I'm beyond your help?" Severus asks after a moment of silence, sounding slightly pained. "That there's nothing for you to do here?"

"No," Harry says firmly, feeling the truth in his words even as he speaks them. "I don't believe that for a second. I know you, and I know who you are, and I know that you are one of the good guys, even if you'd rather swallow one of your poisons then to admit to it."

Severus frowns. "How can you know that for sure?" he presses, the line in his forehead turning deeper by the second. "How can you…" He stops, swallows dryly. "How can you say that when I don't even feel sure of myself?"

Harry can only shake his head and say: "I see you. I see you, Severus — that's all."

"_How_?" Severus demands. "I need to see. Show me. Let me see you, too."

Harry smiles. He has prepared for this, for this moment. "Alright."

And he does. He unveils his magic, slow and steady, wanting to show and to be seen in a way that he hadn't ever before, and instead of feeling frightening and unbearable, it feels right.

He wants to understand Severus Snape better than anyone else ever did and ever would. Surprisingly, Harry discovers that he feels just as strongly about being known.

They need this.

They do.

* * *

_A flash of green. A shout in the distance. People running everywhere. Dust in the air. Harry needs to run, only his feet are stuck to the ground and the only thing he can do is watch his friends die and listen as—_

Harry hears the shift of fabric, a movement near his left side, then a hand lands on his shoulder, and he's off. Before the person can cast whatever they are planning on him, Harry elbows them on the stomach, already twisting in place to grab the wrist of the hand touching him and still it in place.

There's a welp of surprise followed by a groan of pain, none of which Harry pays attention to, focusing, instead, on his surroundings, searching for other threats, taking in the scene as his eyes snap open in a flash.

"Harry!" The person calls, trying to wiggle their wrist free from Harry's grip.

It's not even a challenge to tighten the hold and keep them where they are — the person is not trained, not strong enough to make a valid attempt at getting away.

_Access the threat, contain the assaulters, confiscate their wands, immobilize them, check for reinforcement._

His training awakens instantly, pressing him to act — fast. In a flash, Harry is out of the couch and throwing his attacker on the floor, on their stomach, digging his knee on their back. The person struggles and curses, obviously taken by surprise that Harry is reacting violently.

Why, though?

Who would get pass his wards, invade his room, try to harm him as he sleeps and still be taken by surprise when he reacts badly to it? It doesn't make sense.

_Something is wrong._

The thought nags at the corner of his mind, but it's easily dismissed by the dominant part of his brain, which is demanding that Harry acts, that he curses whoever dared to try to kill him, that he unleashes the eleven hexes building at the tip of his tongue.

It would be effortlessly. He has the person at his mercy, immobilized and obviously cowering at the way Harry's magic is looming hugely over them, filling every corner of the room and buzzing with a bright electric current, begging to be unleashed.

Harry blinks and suddenly, like a ball of cotton has been removed from his ears, the person's voice rings clear and loud.

"—have to snap out of it, Harry—" The man — it's a man, Harry realizes — begs, his face turned as far as it can go as he tries to meet Harry's eyes. "It's me. Severus. You know me, remember? It's time to wake up, Harry. You're hurting me."

Severus.

Hurting me.

Severus Snape.

Hurting.

Harry is hurting him.

Of course he is — isn't that the point? This man had tried to hurt—

Harry blinks once more, and the scene slides into focus, as though a curtain of fog is dissipating in front of his eyes. Harry is in his room, by the couch, where he had taken a quick nap before dinner time, and he's kneeling over the body of the person who had awoken him from a nightmare.

Harry is holding and threatening his assailant, his...

Severus?

"Shit!" He screams, abruptly releasing the boy and jumping up, putting as much distance between them as he can.

Fuck. Shit. Goddammit.

From the corner of his eyes, Harry sees Severus scrambling to his feet, straightening his robes and shaking his head, obviously shaken by almost being hexed for no reason at all. Because Harry is dangerous and out of control and fucked up and too fucking used to being at war and has no idea how to behave like a goddamn normal human being.

_Shit_.

He could've hurt Severus; He could've killed him.

For a moment there, he had _wanted_ to.

Frowning, Severus calls: "Harry, are you—"

"Leave," Harry orders, demands, closing his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose. God, how could he? How could Harry put the boy he's trying to save in such danger? "Now!"

"I don't believe—"

Why isn't he running for his life while he can? Weren't Slytherin's supposed to be all about self-preservation?

"_Get out_!" Harry screams, and in doing so loses control of his magic like a fucking child, knocking down rows of books all over the floor, some nearly hitting Severus, who flinches back in shock.

Shit.

Tears gather in Harry's eyes at the scene. What a mess. He really fucked this one up, hadn't he?

Fisting his hands until his knuckles turned white, Harry looks away, fixating on a random spot at the wall. "Please, Severus," he begs, breathing harshly. "Just… go."

And it's those words that finally get Severus to move. Without another sound of protest, he sidesteps Harry and leaves, slamming the door after him with such force that more books fall off their shelves.

The second he's gone, Harry crumbles into the floor, and the only thing filling up the silence is his screams of frustration and burning rage.

* * *

"Severus!" Harry greets, happy to be saved from that horrible attempt at flirting and even happier that it's his favourite person who interrupted them. Then he notices the robes Severus are wearing — dark blue and obviously brand new. Gorgeous. Bought with Harry's money. "Don't you look dashing tonight."

"Professor." Severus nods and eyes him up and down in a clear perusal. Harry tries not to visibly straighten his posture. "Well, it is impossible to say the same to you, I'm afraid. Whoever sold you these robes should be out of their jobs."

Harry laughs in surprise. "They were a present. I happen to find them pretty comfortable, too." Suddenly remembering his manners, he gestures to the woman watching them with an impatient air. "Severus, this is Lady Jones. Lady Jones, this is my best student, Severus Snape."

The woman gives a fake little laugh that instantly grates Harry's nerves. "I'm sure that you say that about all your students, Harry," she says, assuming a familiarity that he never allowed her. That she dismissed Severus without another look irks him in another level entirely.

"I do not, actually. Severus is, in fact, my most talented student — by quite a large margin. Which is made all the more impressing by that fact that it's not even his best subject."

She visibly dismisses the praise. "Surely, your teaching methods should get the credit they deserve?" She purrs, placing one hand on Harry's forearm.

Well, fuck her. Felicia Jones just went from annoying to downright rude in a blink of eyes — how predictable. Harry wants to sigh and roll his eyes at the predictability of the whole thing. God, he does dislike parties with a fervent passion. There's always someone trying to paw at him.

"Forgive the interruption," Severus says, not sounding sorry at all. "I've stopped by to inform you that the Headmaster is requesting your presence, Harry. Immediately."

Harry reads the lie clearly in the boy's eyes, but leaps at the chance to make a quick escape. "Oh, is that so? It must be important, then. I should go right away." He turns to Jones, who seems to be gearing up to insist he remains where he is. "I'm sorry, but I must go. A good evening, Lady Jones."

Her grip on his arm tightens, her eyes narrowing. "That's a shame. Maybe he can wai—"

"Oh, no. The Headmaster is very impatient — I must not leave him waiting," Harry says, pulling his arm away with a tug and placing his hand on Severus' lower back. "Please, Severus, lead the way."

As soon as they begin to move away, Harry breathes in relief. Merlin, women can be vicious sometimes. They cross the room in fluid movements until they step out the door and reach the empty, silent corridor.

Well, that was a successful retreat. Better yet, now they are alone and with a good excuse to ditch the whole party without being too rude. Fuck Dumbledore's weird parties. Eying the castle, an idea crosses his mind.

"God, let's ditch this thing, hun?" Harry beckons him with his fingers, tilting his head to indicate that they should go up the stairwell. "Come here."

Severus hesitates, eyes shifting between the way to the Headmaster's office and the path Harry is pointing at. It's telling that they are in opposite directions.

Harry raises an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, was I wrong in assuming that Dumbledore is not, in fact, waiting for me?"

The boy seems disconcerted, but then he shakes his head, and Harry has to stifle a smile. Severus is not as unreadable as he'd like to believe he is.

"Then come. I want to show you something."

They end up at the Astronomy Tower. It's late and the sky is clear and the moon is full and there is a never-ending blanket of stars shining in the darkness. It's perfect. The perfect night, designed and meant for the two of them alone.

As soon as they arrive, Harry instinctively waves a hand, putting up privacy wards around them. It occurs to him that he has always done that whenever is just the two of them — placing wards to keep a bubble surrounding them, basically excluding the outside world and keeping them in a private moment.

Severus stares for a moment before asking: "Why'd you bring me here?"

"Why not?" Harry shoots back, despite knowing exactly what he's being asked. "Do you not think the night is worthy of being admired?"

There's a heat in Severus' eyes — one that had been burning bright since he interrupted his conversation earlier. To say that it's enticing would be a disservice to it. "Am I here to admire the stars?"

Harry steps closer. "Were you jealous?" He whispers, somehow feeling that this is a conversation better had in the most intimate way possible. "Tell me. Were you jealous of seeing somebody else's hands on me?"

Severus sneers. "It's a disgrace to be so shameless — I was doing little more than a public service by removing you from the situation," he says, crossing his arms. "A woman of her status should not behave in such a way."

"What way, Severus?" Harry insists. "I'm a healthy, single man and so is she, titles notwithstanding. Her flirting with me is nothing short of the expected, I believe."

Harry's sensible, reasonable explanation seems to trigger a darker response from the Slytherin. Harry knows intimately the possessiveness that Severus is trying to push down, and he also knows better than to encourage this kind of unhealthy dependency, but it all fades away into the background as he watches the emotions flashing quickly on Severus' eyes.

Despite all senses, he wants to prod at Severus weak spots until the man admits that he desires Harry for himself. That the thought of another touching him is upsetting, maddening.

Still, Severus says nothing, visibly biting back the words, so Harry presses.

"Why did you lie about a call from the Headmaster, Severus? Why are we here?"

That seems to annoy him. "_You_ brought us here," Severus hisses through gritted teeth.

"I did. I enjoy being far off the ground," Harry agrees. "It doesn't answer my question, though. Why are we here, outside the party, by ourselves, when Felicia is waiting in—"

"She should be waiting for nothing!" Severus finally snaps, taking a step forward and glaring at Harry quite impressively. "She's a nobody. No one. By tomorrow, you won't even remember her name."

"That's a fair assessment," Harry concedes. "Is that it? Were you righting the world's wrongs? Protecting me from making a mistake with a wrong woman?"

"Why must you persist with these inane questions?" Severus is beyond reason now, and Harry craves it. Soaks it up like a dying desert. "You're mine. _Mine_. She has no right to touch you — no one else has, but for me. Is that what you want to hear?"

Harry's pretty sure his eyes are glazed over from the strength of the feelings rushing through his body, wrapping around his middle, crushing his heart tighter and tighter still as Severus keeps on speaking.

"Felicia Jones will do well in learning not to stick her nose into places where she's not welcomed," Severus says, and the words are sharp and full of edges. Possessive. Proprietary, even.

The tension shatters, and Harry loses the ability to breathe.


End file.
